


The White Room

by likeamadonna



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 100,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9849653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeamadonna/pseuds/likeamadonna
Summary: Bono and The Edge bought a posh villa on the French Riviera in the early 1990s, and their bedroom is on the top floor. This story takes place in that villa, and especially that white room. Multi-era from 1994-2006, with alternating points of view, and each chapter has a color.





	1. Baby Blue

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came to me a couple of weeks after I finished writing Fetish, and it has been developing in my mind since December. The first chapter begins with an email from Edge to Bono written in January 1995, and it is followed by a sort of journal he kept during the summer of 1994, a.k.a. The Summer of Love. My next chapter will be similar in terms of format, but it will be the S.O.L. from Bono's point of view, and hopefully he will write about everything Edge has left out here.
> 
> Incidentally, my knowledge of this house is based on a couple of average photographs of part of this house's exterior. I have no floor plan, and I am more than likely making the white room a lot larger than it actually is (but really, who cares?). Also it might take a while for me to finish this one. During my time off, I discovered that I like sleeping. But it's not gonna take me 14 years, I'm pretty sure.
> 
> These first two chapters will probably be my fluffiest ones, since their love affair is shiny and new. My ultimate goal with this story is to capture the realities of a relationship as it evolves over time. Well, it'll be as real as my version of these two gets, anyway.
> 
> Thanks as always to my Bedge squad for their ongoing support of my fics: Carina, PJ, and Jana. And thank you for reading this!

_Look who finally has email! Proud of you._

_Los Angeles was...something. Morleigh’s massive extended family finally met this Irish-or-is-he-Welsh? character they’d been hearing so much about, and they asked him questions he had been anticipating for a while. Looking back, it would have been much easier to have set up a podium in her parents’ living room between the menorah and the Christmas tree (sure) and taken questions from them, press conference-style. They neglected to ask the best question, of course._

_“Now what exactly are your intentions towards my grand niece?...So you’re in a rock and roll band? Is that any way to earn a living?...She says you’re still married, right? Technically. Separated. For four years? And you can’t get a divorce until 1995? What kind of country does that? Sylvia, have you ever heard of such a thing?...Well, in any event, as long as you make her happy, who am I to judge?...I swear I could just listen to him talk all day, couldn’t you, Sarah? That accent, and so soft-spoken! And those cheekbones are simply to die for.”_

_Yada yada yada, I won them over. “But at what cost?” Morleigh cooed over my shell-shocked form once the last of her relatives left at the end of the week. She’s staying out there for another month. Incredibly, there are more choreography opportunities in L.A. than in Dublin._

_Before I left, I dipped my hand into the Pacific. I imagined an underwater ray shooting from my fingertips and down the west coast of North America, speeding around the tip of South America, and then gliding all the way up the Atlantic Ocean, taking a slight detour to kiss the pebbles of Killiney Beach before making a beeline to the Mediterranean and the Côte d'Azur, where, exhausted, it collapsed on the shore in front of our home._

_Our home. You miss it, don’t you, baby? So do I._

_Now I am alone in a house where, if I go up to the top floor and look out the bathroom’s east window and crane my neck just right, I can see one of your chimneys. And I happen to know that if you do the same from your west balcony, your eyes will be treated to a small slice of my satellite dish._

_I drove by my old house this morning on the way back from the airport. It’s hard to believe I’m the same Edge as the one who used to live there. It’s odd how a person can ascribe feelings to a series of interconnected wooden boxes. The idea that those boxes cared about the wails of three baby girls and the breakup of a too-young couple who were in way over their heads is not rational, but sometimes I think about what that house has witnessed. Was it scandalized when I dragged you up to my bed and kissed you after our New York trip, the one where everything started? Or did it, like everybody in our inner circle, see that one coming? Well, of course it would have, after watching me on my back countless times, groaning your name as I stared at the ceiling. Or photos. (See attachments. Right-click on the underlined words below--new windows will pop up--and wait about thirty seconds for each picture to load. I promise you it's worth it.)_

_Last week I helped Morleigh’s mother in the kitchen, and I sliced my left thumbnail with a knife while I was cutting an onion in half. This created a raised, triangular tab that is too low in the nail bed to pull off comfortably. Even superglue won’t keep it down completely. So I find myself toying with it all the time, and it catches on items like blankets and gloves. When it snags on something, it takes me right out of whatever I am doing, and I feel a flash of pain. You remind me of that thumbnail. I carry you with me wherever I go, and you make yourself known to me on a regular basis--maybe I’ll see a pair of scissors or cinnamon candy or a black leather jacket, and I’ll feel a similar sting accompanied by a memory from the past few years that goes straight to my cock. Not that I’m complaining. It’s a good problem to have._

_Based on your request this morning, I can tell you have a similar problem._

_Three years ago you officially moved into my heart and made yourself very comfortable, redecorating it as you saw fit--money was no object--and you clogged its minimalist surfaces with your trinkets and souvenirs. Morleigh is happy to coexist there without changing my aesthetic or, miraculously, even yours. “This is how it’s gonna be,” she’s said with a shrug, and she truly seems content. I’ve had a number of blushing conversations in the dark with my curious confidant. She has peeked inside some of your rooms, and she likes what she has seen. So I've told her a few things, but not all of them. Definitely not everything about last summer. That’s for you. That’s for us. And she understands._

_You are both so beautiful. I exist inside the hypnotic space between your fingertip and her quivering midsection. I’m the unnamed void between the proton and the electron._

_I’m glad we had the foresight to write about last summer as it happened. I’ve revised and added to what I had written, cobbling lone paragraphs into a sequence that makes some kind of sense. At the time, I thought we could mine these words for lyric ideas. Now that I have read this, I think I was writing an unintentional memoir in real-time. But really it’s all for you._

_I’m rambling. I’ll see you tomorrow, love. I have a surprise for you._

_E._

\-----

“I always wanted to live in a house with a name,” you said, gazing up at the thirty-room, Art Deco estate as we waited for our realtor to arrive. Its pinkish-salmon exterior matched your sunkissed forehead perfectly.

“You can name literally any house.”

“No, I wanted one that came pre-named.”

“I see.”

“And”--you paused to glance at the piece of paper in your hand--“ _Villa Èze Les Roses_ is much classier than the one I would have picked.”

“Which was...?”

“Bono and Edge’s Sex Palace.” You grinned, clearly delighted to be Bono, and I was equally delighted to be Edge.

Élise, our attractive realtor, was unphased by her showbiz couple _du jour_ , and she showed us around twenty-nine rooms with a casual confidence that broadcasted, _This house sells itself. Also, I am French._ I noticed a few things that needed updating, but the place was spectacular, no question about it, and by the time we reached a certain staircase, I was ninety percent sold. “I’m in love, Edge,” you whispered somewhere along the way. I recognized that covetous gleam in your eyes. You had me in those bright blue crosshairs of yours a couple of years ago, and I could tell this villa was next on your list.

 _Ready. Aim. Fire._  
_Want. Need. Mine._

We walked up the steps, and she opened the door to our--I guess you could call it a turret, a square turret with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides and a wall of mirrors on the fourth. “A dance studio for the previous owner,” Élise explained, waving her right hand with a graceful flourish. “She wanted to dance in the clouds.” You strutted to the center of the room and turned to stare at me. “I’ll give you some privacy,” she said quietly before exiting to the second floor balcony to smoke a cigarette.

“Dance in the clouds?” you asked, grabbing me by the waist and spinning me around with a corrupt leer. “I’d rather fuck in the clouds.”

“Yes,” I said, kissing you.

“White. We should paint it white. All of it: ceiling, floor, walls, furniture. Like in the _Imagine_ video, you know?”

“Do you think we could get a white piano up here?”

“Edge, we can do whatever we want.”

And several million dollars later, the future White Room was ours. That winter and spring we hired a trusted Irish crew to take care of some necessary renovations (electrical, plumbing, furnace). Meanwhile, you and I remained in Dublin with our families and attempted to decompress after ZooTV finally came to an end. Which was easier said than done.

On paper, it made sense. When we are touring, you and I are together. When the tour is over, you and I are apart. That’s fair for everyone. But we were foolish to think we could shift gears that easily. It’s a tribute to your considerable charms that even when faced with an alluring new woman who was inexplicably in love with me, my thoughts returned to you. I missed you. And I don’t want to know what you put Ali through during those overcast, dull months. But when you proposed that we spend the summer in Èze to “work on the house,” she had absolutely no problem with that, so I assume you were a bit of a handful. Probably a lot of a handful.

I couldn't wait for you to become my handful once again.

The flight to Nice was two and a half hours of pure torture. We did our best to distract ourselves with books and music, but I felt like a starving man sitting next to a five feet (and change)-tall pyramid of miniature cream puffs. You smelled infuriatingly delicious, and I could barely bring myself to look at you.

When our driver asked us if we would prefer the direct or scenic route to Èze Sur Mer from the airport (a 15-minute difference), a decisive _DIRECT_ issued forth from the back seat. In stereo. I spent the sunny ride watching oncoming traffic and counting Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bugattis, and other expensive cars ending with the letter I. You alternately admired your fingernails and worried a shirt button you ultimately decided to leave undone.

Upon arrival, we dropped our bags inside the foyer, and you took off in what you thought was the direction of the white room. I grabbed your hand and pulled you in the actual direction of the white room, and we flew up the stairs of our stuffy, largely-unfurnished villa. As per my request, our crew had left a couple of gallons of white paint, a ladder, and painting supplies along with a king-sized mattress on the floor up there. It was wrapped in thin plastic that billowed as I threw you down on it--probably wise to keep it in place--and we tore into each other, groaning and gasping, with the noisy plastic clinging to our sweat-slicked bodies. Our only forms of communication were a series of questioning nods, confirming nods, and tears of relief at penetration and orgasm. Then we rolled onto our backs and stared at the sky, and it was a full ten minutes before we could move. Off in the distance a yacht’s horn blasted, breaking the silence with an obscenely guttural honk, and we laughed.

Thus began our summer of bacchanalia on the Côte d’Azur.

Later that first afternoon, you emerged from the surf like a male Venus and stood with your back to the sea. When I looked into your eyes I did a double-take. They matched the water so perfectly that it seemed like I could see through your head. The salt water did beautiful things to your hair. As it air-dried, it separated into individual waves that could have been sculpted by Bernini. The sweet chemical scent of black dye, which you had stopped using months ago, was replaced by something earthier and more primal, and I spent an inordinate amount of time kissing behind your ears and just...inhaling.

No longer slaves to a punishing schedule, we were positively giddy with the languid pace of Èze, and the summer seemed to stretch out endlessly before us the way it did when we were children. On an average day, we stayed in bed (or during that first week, on mattress) until the angle of the sun made sleep impossible, and we staggered down the beach to a nearby cafe for breakfast and coffee. Years on the road had trained us to devour our meals so quickly that Édouard, the cafe’s elegant, middle-aged proprietor, assumed we were Americans. Then our unusual accents proved him wrong.

“And what brings you to Èze, if I may ask, sir?” he asked politely in perfect English.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief. “This man, _this man_ is one of the world’s foremost oceanographers,” you said. “And Dr. Evans is studying the unique maritime conditions of the Côte d’Azur. I am merely his protege and interpreter. My name is...Byron.” You glanced at me with admiration, and I attempted to study the sea thoughtfully. “He loves Èze so much he bought that house over there, the big pink one.”

“Is that so?” he asked, stroking his chin. “Please allow me to be the first to welcome you to Èze Sur Mer, my scientist friends.”

Eventually we learned how to turn a croissant and a cup of espresso into a two-hour event before moving on to our midday pastis ritual. Édouard introduced that sweet yellow liqueur to us. I didn’t especially enjoy its strong anise flavor, but I loved diluting it with its accompanying sweaty pitcher of cold water and maintaining a strict five to one ratio of water to pastis. We lounged outside under the cafe’s striped awning and ate Édouard’s rather precious sandwiches. Tourists and some of Èze’s four hundred locals walked by, including the occasional fan seeking a photo or an autograph. After this began happening on a regular basis, Édouard tapped you on the shoulder and asked, “Who are you really?”

You grinned sheepishly and motioned for him to come closer. “I’m afraid my friend and I are not glamorous oceanographers, Édouard. We are in fact an ordinary singer and an ordinary guitarist from an ordinary rock ‘n’ roll band.”

He smiled. “Apparently a rather popular one.”

“Apparently. I apologize for the confusion.”

“I knew it had to be something else,” Édouard laughed. “There’s no way a scientist could afford that house. Impossible.”

It did not take long for this bit of information to spread throughout the little village, and eventually U2 postcards began appearing in a few of the shops.

On most afternoons, we liked to stop by a sleepy little produce stand you had discovered. Its elderly proprietress found us amusing, and she taught us French words and phrases while we flirted with her and for her.

“Bonjour, Mme. Rousseau.” You bowed extravagantly and introduced me to her. “C’est...Le Edge.”

She applauded. “Très charmant.” I smiled and kissed her hand.

Mme. Rousseau pulled what seemed to be a private stash of candy from beneath her counter. “Aimez-vous les bonbons?” she asked me.

“More than you know,” you muttered.

“Oui beaucoup,” I said, and she began to offer some raspberry candies that resembled plump satin pillows, only to pull them away at the last second.

“Les amoureux,” she grinned, pointing at a drawing behind her. It was unquestionably drawn by you, and it was unquestionably us, surrounded by a heart.

“I’m pretty sure she wants us to kiss,” you said, and I looked at her gamely. She pointed from me to you repeatedly, so I nodded and took you in my arms. I kissed your cheek and then your lips, and for this minor bit of prostitution we were rewarded with with some candy and a pint of heartbreakingly perfect strawberries. We visited Mme. Rousseau almost daily, and it was a delightful way to learn some survival French.

Back at the villa, afternoons usually found us lounging in the garden or by the swimming pool, alternately sleeping, practicing, writing, reading, or making phone calls. This was especially pleasant once a local repairman deigned to solve a filtration problem for us so the pool could finally be filled. Our day-drinking continued apace. We were sober enough to deal with our decorator or an occasional contractor and drunk enough not to mind if they didn’t show up.

Sometimes visitors such as Michael or Helena would join us for a few days or a week, and we made sure they were constantly entertained. It never took long for the sea to lull our friends into a narcotic daily rhythm that matched our own, and when they returned home they told us how jarring the real world’s pace seemed.

One evening before sunset, Helena and I stood on the balcony and gazed down at you. Lying on a towel near the pool, you were asleep and naked beneath a tangerine sky. Even when you are unconscious, you transmit a brand of sex appeal that is truly destabilizing.

“My kingdom to be that comfortable in my own skin,” said one of the most stunning women in the world. You coughed and rolled onto your stomach.

“Alarmingly beautiful, isn’t he?”

“Make him a girl and give him legs about six inches longer, and he’d put me out of a job,” Helena laughed. “Do you think he’d mind if I took some photos?”

“He will not mind, and he will remain completely oblivious to you unless you touch him.” She nodded and hurried to her room, and soon she was beside you on the ground with her camera. The resulting black and white shot, which arrived in my accumulated mail today, shows freckled, luminous skin stretched taut over an arrangement of flesh and bone that will always enchant me. Helena also managed to take a photo of the two of us as we slept on the floor, dimly lit by the television. We are lying on our sides facing each other in a tangle of arms and legs, with your head tucked under my chin. We look as serene as twins in the womb.

Our visitors made our new home feel somehow more real to me--new eyes viewing it created a feeling of permanence. But for the most part we were on our own, and I loved those days.

The occasional hangover could cause you to stay in bed past noon, and I would wander up the hillside to explore the medieval village of Èze. One morning as I was browsing through an antique store, I found an item that made me want to call you.

“Edge...Jesus Christ, what the fuck is it?”

“What’s your inseam?”

“32.”

“Seriously.”

“29. Why?”

“I’m buying a table for the white room.”

“Wait...what?”

“Think about it.”

“...For god’s sake, Edge.”

Eventually more furniture and appliances began to fill the house, and I managed to find someone who was able to connect us to the internet (“You are the first house in Èze to have it,” said the young man, who was happy to install it in exchange for a couple of autographs).

In a word, it was paradise. But something was missing. You were the first to ask the question. “So what do we do now, Edge--simply become members of the idle rich? Buy another hotel? Seriously, how are we going to top the last couple of years?” I had no idea, and I didn’t know if it was even possible. Following the success of the tour and the two albums, you and I had every reason to feel accomplished and pleased with ourselves as we waited for inspiration to strike and the next cycle to begin. We knew this break--this breathing room--was necessary, but I began to miss the tiny creative puzzles and victories that occurred on a daily basis when we were recording or on the road. Simply reading or listening to music was not as satisfying as it once was. Distracting ourselves with little chores or special indulgences was not going to cut it, either. It all felt so passive.

“I miss communicating with the muse,” I said early on.

“But I’m right here, Reg,” you replied with a crooked grin.

You made a good point. I suggested that maybe we should write a journal for each other, if only to keep some creative juices flowing during our summer of love. Then we could share those entries when we were desperate for each other during our time apart. Two smart leather-bound notebooks were purchased, and soon we had a French-seeming activity to keep us busy at the cafe. You enjoyed tormenting me with grammar questions.

“Edge, which sounds better: _All I have to do to make Edge come is kiss his ears relentlessly_ or _All I have to do to make Edge come is TO kiss his ears relentlessly…?_ No idea, then? I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

Evenings found us attempting to cook together as more bottles were opened. We laughed ourselves silly telling stories from the fifteen-odd years we had spent as bandmates. Often those stories spilled over to our moonlit walks along the narrow public beach that stood between our villa and the sea. After the tourists had left for the day, we had it all to ourselves.

“Mind if I work on my moon tan for a while, Edge?” you asked one night.

“Not at all.”

You and I stretched out on the pebbles, which were not especially comfortable, but it didn’t matter. The full moon was high above the Mediterranean and reflected over a thousand waves. The way its dim white light caressed your face reminded me of when we watched movies together during our first tour of America. “Hey B, remember when we used to go see ‘foreign films’ back in the early days?”

“Gotta love how Americans categorize anything that’s not theirs as foreign and the rest of us just fall in line...of course I do,” you said, taking my hand.

“You actively sought them out.”

“Well, it was the only reliable way a couple of wholesome Christian boys could see some nudity every once in a while. _Artistic_ nudity.”

“And sit together holding hands with each other.”

“I just liked being with you, Edge.”

“But you don’t simply hold hands, love. The things you used to do with me under that horrible fur coat of yours...”

“Ha! I thought I was so fancy in that coat.”

I began to demonstrate some of your techniques. “Your hand rarely stayed still. Sometimes you’d explore a single finger, just softly running yours up and down its length like this, or you’d leave my hand alone and play with my inner wrist. The most maddening thing you did was trace your fingernail along each of my cuticles. Seriously, B, who does that?”

“Ehm, I do. Cuticles are very sensitive. Highly underrated.”

“Very creative.”

“My hands loved worshiping your hands.”

“I was happy to let you. But I could barely pay attention to the films, and my other hand was always jealous.”

We turned to face each other, and you took my other hand and kissed it. “Poor darling. You had a few tricks of your own, you know. You’d let me do my thing for a while, but then you’d take over. Like this.” Your hands pinned mine against the pebbles. “Just fucking immobilizing me for a few seconds to let me know who was truly in control. I’d look over at you and see that little smile.” You kissed me while loosening your grip. “Gorgeous boy.”

“At the end of the movie I’d half expect to see steam when you lifted your coat.”

“Especially after those really long films. Like _Tess._ ”

“Ahh, _Tess._ ”

“What was that, three hours long? Nastassja Kinski. I swear to Christ.”

“She looked like you.”

You stared up at the sky. “Would you have preferred it if I were a girl, Edge?”

“Things would have been easier, sure. But the forbidden is so much sexier when you get right down to it.”

You considered this. “True. And sometimes I just need a man.” You exhaled, and that simple sentence ripped through my body.

“You need me.”

“I need you, Edge.”

“And I need you, Bono.” We kissed again, and you moved closer, so I put my arm around you, and we were quiet for a while. The waves lapped against the beach, and a mild breeze swept through some nearby palm trees. “Anyway,” I said, “I loved our movie nights. And I loved discussing them in the dark with you later.”

"‘Hey B, remember that strawberry scene?’” you smiled, mimicking my teenaged voice.

“‘That guy was a creep, but her mouth when he fed it to her...’” I’m nowhere near as good as you are with impressions.

"'I can’t stop thinking about it.’”

"‘God, she’s so pretty.’”

“Nothing wrong with beautiful girls,” I smiled.

“We’d develop momentary crushes on actresses and obsess over details about them later. I loved the way your voice shifted to something a bit less cerebral.”

“You’d make little appreciative moans that made me want to get in your bed. It was like we had a once-removed sexual connection when we talked about women.”

“It’s true.” You heard a noise behind you and lifted your head. A cat came trotting down the beach, and he gave us a look before moving on. “Hey, that’s our little man!”

A week earlier, I had discovered you listening to a “Learn to Speak French” CD poolside. You were lying on your stomach on a chaise lounge. A plump orange cat was perched on your ass while you idly drew a picture of it on the cement with a rock.

_Qu’est-ce que vous faites?_

“Kess koo voo fait?”

_(What is your profession?)_

“Un rock star.”

_Est-ce que ça te plaît?_

“Ess ka sat uh play?”

_(Do you enjoy it?)_

“Fucking wee.”

“I hate to interrupt, but who’s your friend, B?”

You laughed, but the cat stayed put. “Check out his tag, Edge. It’s adorable.”

The cat eyed me cautiously as I shifted his turquoise collar to read what was on its small brass heart. “Garçon de Pêche...Peach Boy?”

“Can you beat it?”

The other side of the tag had an address similar to ours along with a phone number, followed by a few more words in French.

“Do you know what the rest of this says?”

Proud of yourself, you held up a small dictionary. “Get this: _He can go where he pleases. Call if he bothers you._ Little cock of the walk. I am fucking in love with this cat, Edge.”

I stroked his fur, and, purring happily, he walked in a small circle and settled down to take a nap on you. “I don’t blame you a bit, Peach Boy, but I think you should know you’re trespassing on my property.” He opened and closed his eyes slowly, and you chuckled.

Later on we did some digging and found out that a member of our crew had noticed Garçon de Pêche exploring our garden, and he fed him some prosciutto, so our house (and now your backside) had become part of this cat’s daily rounds. He slept for about fifteen minutes, and then his attention was needed elsewhere, and he hopped down.

You were wearing your blue swimming shorts at the time--you changed into them almost every afternoon. They hugged you in a way that nearly drove me out of my mind, and they featured light blue stitching and a maddening, superfluous back pocket decorated with Versace’s black and white Medusa label. Last summer I stared at her so often it’s a wonder I never turned to stone. Well, a part of me did, actually. And if the shorts were askew in any way, I took it upon myself to rearrange them for you: pulling the waistband down just a bit, folding the hem of the shorts so I could see a bit more leg, that kind of thing, and I made sure your skin didn’t burn by applying sunscreen. Repeatedly.

Over the course of the summer, you and I violated every single one of our thirty rooms with acts I'm fairly certain none of them had ever seen. But we spent the majority of our time in the white room, my love, didn't we?

It was our favorite place to enjoy the sunset, and one night after we had spent some time naming shapes we saw in the pink and purple clouds, you rose from our white leather couch, peeled off those shorts, and walked toward the door. “Just gonna get some more refreshments downstairs,” you said, grinning at me over your shoulder. Your skin was about as tan as you ever get, which is to say not very tan, but it was darker than your round, perfectly androgynous ass, which was an almost opalescent white.

“No. You’re staying.”

I never tire of hearing you sigh _Fuck me in our bed,_ love. Our bed.

Other times I noticed that your too-tight jeans had created a network of narrow pink welts running along your waist and hips. My tongue loved traveling along lines formed by seams my eyes had examined all day. Thanks to our sedentary lifestyle and an endless parade of precious sandwiches, you and I gained a few pounds that summer, but neither of us cared. At all. If anything, you became even sexier to me.

We continued to talk to each other during sex, but it had evolved into something a bit less baroque than before. But it was still potent. A simple _God I love your cock_ or _Edge I’ve been so bad_ were more than enough for me when they came from that mouth of yours, in a hundred variations from a whisper to a scream.

Our easy rapport and your disarming sense of humor led to a deeper understanding between us. One night as we stared at the ceiling and shared a cigarette, I asked you, “What’s better than an orgasm?”

“Sometimes? Finding keys.”

“There’s an easy way to solve that problem.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to have key orgasms.”

I knew I could say anything to you, and you would be interested, and you made me laugh and imagine new things countless times.

Sometime during that first week, I gave you a bath in our large tub downstairs. We had finished painting the white room, and you were a bit of a mess, although the new white freckles that decorated your body were not without charm. My mouth rarely left yours, and my hands praised your body for its various perfections. You enjoyed the attention, and then you asked me to join you. How could I refuse? Once our bodies had organized themselves into something comfortable under the water, we relaxed in warm, blissful silence. Then you said, “There. I’m disappearing.”

“Explain.”

“When the temperature of the water matches the temperature of my body, I feel like the boundaries blur between the two, and I’m not really a person anymore, and for a couple of minutes I get to disappear. Are you disappearing yet?”

“I think I am.”

“Disappear with me.”

The white room was constantly evolving. We loved to open the windows at night and let the sea sing us to sleep. If I woke up in the night, I was treated to a room full of stars, the kind I could only dream about when I turned on my little night-sky projector that sat beside my childhood bed. Sometimes I would kiss you awake during sunrise so you could see that the walls were golden, or in that half hour just before dawn, baby blue.

“Is this how it's gonna be?” you whispered sleepily.

“Yes. I hope so, love.”


	2. Pearl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, the point of view shifts to Bono. It begins with an email to Edge from 1995 and continues with written descriptions from the summer of 1994. 
> 
> The White Room is a continuation of my particular Bedge universe, so I am taking the liberty of referring to events from my other stories. Sparingly--it's not going to make a difference if you haven't read them. One of those was written in 2002, and it contained a minor timeline error that I didn't know about because back then internet research was nowhere near as good as it is now. The error: I was off on a Bono hair change by about nine months. But I'm just going to go with it for the sake of the story (while I sit in a corner rocking back and forth saying, "It's not that big of a deal. It's not that big of a deal").
> 
> I propose that Bono create a series of ASMR recordings, just saying.
> 
> Thanks to PJ and Shannon for inspiring the bit where Bono says he has insecurities. Thanks to all who commented and encouraged me on the last chapter! And for those who requested more Peach Boy, I am happy to bring you more Peach Boy. :D

_Necessity is the mother of me figuring out how email works so I can read your stories, Edge. Seriously, thank you for connecting my house to the internet. I can see how this sudden ability to research virtually anything might become an addiction for some._

_But back to your stories. I enjoyed reading them and am flattered by your characterization of me as a Lolita-like sex object. Gianni knew exactly what he was doing when he designed those shorts (and I knew exactly what I was doing when I bought them). I’m glad you wrote about the wholesome details regarding Èze and the rhythm of our days and nights in our sex palace. Because I’m afraid that when I wrote this last summer, I focused on conversations and sex, so today is your lucky day, the Edge. Actually, tonight. You should probably read this at night._

_I appreciated the thoughtful inclusion of your Helena-produced pornography collection; obviously I do not remember anything about either of those photos. But I do take issue with her idea that I am comfortable in my own skin. Maybe that’s possible if I am intoxicated or asleep, but otherwise_ you know me, Edge. _I am just as vain and insecure as anybody else, probably more so. I’ve seen far too many photos of myself, and not just the “good” ones, but the bad ones on contact sheets with red Xs through them that will never see the light of day. I could easily rattle off a list of things I would change about myself. But you and Ali say you love those things exactly the way they are, so I won’t. I promise._

 _Speaking of Ali, I spent the majority of that dead week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve formulating The Case For Leniency. You were in California, and I wanted--no, I_ needed _\--to spend some time with you upon your return. I mentally prepared myself to ask Ali if certain rules could be relaxed on certain rare occasions because who knows when we’ll be on tour again? It could be years before that happens, Edge._ Years.

_“Ali, darling, Edge is coming back from Los Angeles soon, and I--”_

_“You want to see him, don’t you?”_

_“Uh, yes.”_

_“Isn’t that why you bought The Clarence in the first place? I mean, I just_ assumed _…”_

_I gaped at her and blinked a few times, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek and asked if I felt like taking the girls to deliver some cookies to her parents._

_Several days later I was the recipient of an email that said, “Garden Terrace Suite. Wednesday, 7:00pm. Get there first.” You can count on me, sir. I arrived a full hour early and spent my time reading a book of sonnets by Edna St. Vincent Millay*, a gift from a lovestruck, bookstore-owning fan. Then I heard your knock at exactly 7:00. You know you are intimately involved with someone when you can recognize the sound of their knuckles tapping on an exquisite, handcrafted white oak door. (I really like our hotel, Edge.)_

_There you stood in the doorway, an austere vision in the kind of long black coat you can pull off but somehow I cannot. The hallway lights created a halo around your hatless head, and I instinctively dropped to my knees before you. “Your excellency,” I said with a grin, kissing your ring before taking that entire finger in my mouth for a second or two. You laughed and pulled me up, and that was when I discovered your surprise._

_“Edge, your braid.”_

_“Do you like it?”_

_“Well, it’s gone, but…” I looked you over--elegant, symmetrical, strict--and once again I became weak in the knees. You had taken on a Henry Miller-like virility that made me question what the fuck I was doing with my little Beatnik beard or whatever it is. It didn’t matter at the time, though. “God, you’re so fucking sexy.”_

_“I ran into Helene at Principle yesterday, and she tugged on it and said, ‘1995. Is time.’ And you know you can’t argue with that woman, so I let her have her way with me.”_

_“Oh you’re_ definitely _the favorite now, Edge.”_

_“I can’t disagree.”_

_“End of an era.”_

_“The beginning of a new one.”_

_Your lips were on mine, and then your body was on mine. I could almost feel certain invisible controls inside me being dialed up or down as I adjusted from Ali to you, a sensation similar to that jolt of recognition you feel when a drug kicks in. A hotel suite in Dublin dissolved into our room in the clouds in Èze, and once again I was yours. And I needed you so badly._

_I read sonnets to you until we fell asleep. That suite is officially ours whenever you or I want it now. Arrangements have been made._

_Oh Edge. Last summer. Our golden summer of love. This thing we have is alive. Dear god, what a hold you have on my heart._

_*Not in a silver casket cool with pearls_  
_Or rich with red corundum or with blue,_  
_Locked, and the key withheld, as other girls_  
_Have given their loves, I give my love to you;_  
_Not in a lovers'-knot, not in a ring_  
_Worked in such fashion, and the legend plain—_  
_Semper fidelis, where a secret spring_  
_Kennels a drop of mischief for the brain:_  
_Love in the open hand, nothing but that,_  
_Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt,_  
_As one should bring you cowslips in a hat_  
_Swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt,_  
_I bring you, calling out as children do:_  
_"Look what I have!—And these are all for you."_

_B._

\-----

“Hello?”

“Edge.”

“What do you need, baby?”

“Us.”

“Wanna come over tonight?”

“No. Well, yes. But this is bigger. That thing we talked about? She’s fine with it.”

“Oh, is she?”

“Perhaps a little _too_ fine…? Doesn’t matter. We’ve got the summer. Starting Friday.”

“Wow. Okay. I guess Friday is--sure.”

“I’m coming over.”

My every waking hour leading up to Friday was riddled with thoughts of you, especially during idle moments when the TV was on. I’d try to pay attention, but I’d start picturing the two of us in silhouette, superimposed over the images on the screen in any number of positions. And while I would gladly throw myself off a cliff for the sake of my children, they were driving me out of my mind with the incessant playing of their Beauty and the fucking Beast video (and singing its songs, and forcing me to recite its disturbing Stockholm syndrome narrative while they acted it out with plastic dolls). Thank you _so much_ , Uncle Norman. But eventually our day arrived with a shocking lack of feminine tears.

 _What are you thinking about?_ I wrote on a piece of paper and passed it to you during our flight to Nice.

You wrote a reply and slid the note back. _Can those windows be soundproofed?_

I smiled at you and mimed a scream of ecstasy. _Probably not easily. We’ll just have to play loud music my darling oh my god jesus christ fuck me edge fuck me_ You pocketed the piece of paper.

Testing the windows for soundproofing was your second order of business that day following a certain desperate and breathless scene with me upstairs. We peeled ourselves off the mattress and its awful covering, and you handed me the note. After instructing me to yell those last words at full volume with the windows both opened and closed, you stood on the beach and listened, and you could hear some of the important parts when they were closed and pretty much everything when they were opened. As if you needed an excuse to buy a state-of-the-art stereo system.

The sky was overcast the first time we slept in the soon-to-be-white room on that sheet-strewn mattress.

“The actual bed frame should be here in a few days.”

“But the important thing is...this is our bed, Edge. Ours.”

“This is our _home._ ”

The moon had slipped behind the clouds, and as we lay there six inches off the floor, I felt like we were inside a translucent black pearl. “I don’t want to do much of anything this summer, Edge. I’m just...creatively spent,” I whispered.

You sighed and nodded. “I’m afraid I am, too. Don’t worry about it, though. We’re like...a field in winter. It looks like everything is dead on the surface, but underneath the soil, once things have had a chance to rest, they always regroup. We’re resting. Regrouping. This is good for us.”

“But Adam and Larry are in New York actually doing things. Learning things. Getting better.”

“This is how you and I get better.” I had missed your arm around me and the nighttime rhythm of your breathing. I attempted to match it.

“I hope so. Because I’ve never felt this relaxed.”

“Have you _ever_ felt relaxed for an extended period of time? Serious question.”

“Maybe I haven’t.”

“Well, this is what it’s like. You deserve some time to recover from the past few years.”

“So do you.”

You glanced over at the red numbers on the bedside clock you felt the need to have. “We never really had a proper honeymoon, you know, B.”

“It’s true. That was technically a work-courtship and work-honeymoon. I mean, we were ecstatic but we were exhausted.”

“We still had sex every chance we got.”

“It was extraordinarily fun, love. Crazy, though.”

“Yeah.”

I studied your profile in the shadows. “We’ll take care of each other.”

“Exactly.”

We listened to the waves for a moment. “This place seems like a 45 record played at 33,” I whispered.

You smiled and kissed my forehead. Taking on a deep, very slow voice, you said, “IIIII prrrommissse youuuuu wwilllll nnnevvverrr beeee booorrreddd.” We chuckled, and I could feel you begin to drift off to sleep. And during the weeks that followed, you made good on your promise.

Soon…

Empty wine and whiskey bottles filled with lavender and sunflowers. Straw hats tipped down over sleeping eyes. Blankets and pillows strewn about in places where furniture would eventually go. Paperbacks splayed open on deck chairs. Strawberry stems casually tossed over the balcony. Abandoned towels lying in heaps. You and I were not strangers to domesticity--living with women will cure a man of an array of slovenly habits--but you and I were also not strangers to room service and a life of pampered ease.

Somehow you found and hired Cécile. We briefly considered asking this fifty(?)something housekeeper to sign an NDA, but she turned out to be so jaded that it didn’t seem to matter what we left lying about. When we remembered, we’d mess up the other bed, but if she cared enough to suspect that we were lovers, she kept it to herself. Cécile was wholly unimpressed with our fame, and if anything she viewed us as a couple of losers based on the remnants of what we ate. On one weekly visit, she arrived with a covered dish that she placed in the oven.

“Cécile! My goodness. Edge, are you seeing this?” We sat on barstools and gawked at her like goons.

“Cécile. For us?”

“Ratatouille. Manger des légumes, vous slobs.”

You looked at me with a grin. “Did she just call us slobs?”

I had been studying French for a couple of weeks and was therefore an authority. “I believe she said something like, ‘Eat vegetables, you slobs.’” We laughed and applauded Cécile, who cracked a brief smile before surveying the disaster area that was our kitchen counter. Needless to say, our dour enchantress was rewarded with flowers, sweets, and praise whenever she made us eat vegetables. Which was every single week that summer.

One afternoon, following a delightful phone call with Ali and the girls, I was listening to my aforementioned French lessons by the pool. Teacher’s-aide Peach Boy was perched atop his Versace-encased command post as usual. Clad in a towel, you walked by and said, “You’re an ornament to our pool, B.” I reached up and slapped your backside.

“Looking good, Reg. You finally have a bit of an ass, you know? One that is built on pure virtue, of course. Unlike mine…”--you turned and smiled at me--”...which is built on sin.” You moved to pinch me, but Peach Boy was having none of that, and he batted your hand away. Then he winced at a raindrop.

“What the fuck, Edge, since when does it rain here? It’s still pretty sunny.”

“Probably just a quick cloudburst.” You lifted Peach Boy and placed him under a table along with my CD player. “Come on.”

It started to pour as I followed you to our walled garden beyond the pool. Shiny palm leaves, ferns, and billowing fuchsia bougainvillea created a miniature rain forest for us. Taking my questioning face in your hands, you kissed me and said, “Kissing in the rain seems like the cinematic thing to do.”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” I removed your towel, placed it on the ground, and, gazing up at you, my male god, I did something they don't show in most cinemas. Together we offended Peach Boy’s prudish sensibilities, or maybe he was just jealous of you; I don’t know. In any case, I noticed he had stopped watching us once you were in my mouth, and he was gone by the time I was in yours. The rain was liquid sunshine, and I knew we were at the end of somebody's rainbow. _Oh Edge. Reading this makes me want you now, makes me want to be back there on my knees with your hands in my wet hair and your gasping, drenched body gleaming in the sun above me._

“You’re my singularity,” you said as we lay on our backs on that muddy towel. The clouds had parted and fat, prismatic raindrops slid off the leaves and flowers. I pretended I knew what you were talking about. It sounded like something good.

_Hey, I just remembered I have the sudden ability to research virtually anything. And now I know that the singularity is “a hypothetical moment in time when artificial intelligence and other technologies have become so advanced that humanity undergoes a dramatic and irreversible change.” Edge, you hopeless romantic._

“Liberté, égalité, fraternité, sexualité!” became my around-the-house catchphrase. Shamelessly unproductive and intoxicated by our love (and, of course, plenty of alcohol), we lived like animals...animals who occasionally got invited onto yachts and attended posh pool parties with Jack Nicholson. Accordingly, when we weren’t in loungewear or various states of undress, we wore tacky prints and horrid fucking tunics like a couple of bohemian rock stars, and you even had a sort of fez moment, didn’t you? I shaved occasionally, but I didn’t replace the blade in my razor that entire summer. In daylight, the white room afforded us zero vanity. We could see absolutely everything up there, and I laughed when you pointed out a few silver chin hairs that were advancing upon their cinnamon brothers.

“It begins.”

“I’m afraid it’s all downhill from here, Edge.”

I was tempted to get sloppy with you when we were in public (and we probably should have been more careful). The fact that we couldn’t kiss made the little things we managed to do seem even sexier. Your arm around my shoulders. A glance that lasted much longer than a glance should. Sitting or standing just a bit too close to you, our feet touching. Your beautiful fingers pretending to find a tiny crumb on my neck or buttoning my shirt (why do you think I keep them undone?). Singing to each other in sweaty nightclubs. Whispering. Just fucking whispering in your hot, blushing ears.

“I bet I could make you come by doing this.”

“I’d like to see you try. Later.”

So I tried. Later. I sat you down on a wooden chair beside the mirrors upstairs, and I took off the t-shirt I was wearing and turned it into a makeshift blindfold for you. “Oh, are we doing the blindfold thing, too?”

“Yes,” I whispered, appreciating the dark blue shadows that were draped across your body. The blindfold thing has been a game of ours since we were young, and its origin is shockingly wholesome. Guggi had an art teacher who was more avant-garde than most, at least by Dublin’s standards, and in one of his exercises, his students were paired up, and one was blindfolded. The other guided the blind student around for ten minutes before stopping at something interesting. When the blindfold was removed, the visual experience would be so intense that the student would remember the scene for the rest of his or her life. So you and I have done that on special occasions: Moydrum Castle, the Pacific Ocean, a canopy of blooming magnolia trees, our first stadium crowd, etc.

“So, the Edge, you find yourself here in the throne room of our sex palace,” I whispered, giving your earring a gentle kiss. “Completely at my mercy, I might add. Does the sound of my voice make you hard, love? It should. This voice is your bread and butter.” You grinned, and I moved over to your other ear and just breathed for a while.

“I think we should talk--no, I think I should _whisper_ \--about last night, Edge. I’m sorry I tortured you at that restaurant. You wanted to go home early, but I got you drunk and I made you stay and flirt with me in front of those girls. Then later in bed I swear all I wanted to do was lean over you to see if my book was on the floor--which it was!” Time to sit on your lap, facing you. My teeth grazed the curves of your ear. “And then you laughed and grabbed me, didn’t you? What did you call it? My ‘cheeky, darling ass.’ Hands off it, love.” I draped my wrists over the back of the chair and inhaled. I could feel your weight shift beneath me. “I mean, I suppose I was asking for it. I’m never not asking for it when it comes to you, let’s face it, Edge. As a matter of fact, I’m asking for it now.” Back to your right ear, but not before pausing with my lips a fraction of an inch before yours. “Please, Edge. Please fuck me tonight.” Patience, Bono, patience.

“Now, where was I? Oh yes.” I murmured softly, nuzzling your earlobe with the tip of my nose. “You grabbed me and you held me over your lap and you spanked me a couple of times, didn’t you? Not particularly hard. Just enough to flip a switch in my mind, and probably yours, too.” More breathing. It’s an underrated technique. “Then we both started laughing. We laughed a lot as I recall, and I gave you a goodnight kiss, and that was that. But it wasn’t. I’ve been thinking about it all fucking day. Hands off it, love.”

I decided to let that idea simmer, so I spent some time repeating your name. People like to hear their names, Edge, and you are no exception. My lips were in the general neighborhood of your left ear, but they were slowly wandering back to the nape of your neck. “Incidentally, my hair feels so much cooler this way, love. I’m glad you forced me to get it cut the other day. Do you like it? You always change the subject, but I know you do.” That seemed to hit a nerve. “Anyway, all I’m saying is that if spanking my cheeky, darling ass is something you’d like to explore, I wouldn’t have a probl--oh Edge. There you go. There you go. That’s it, yes, come for me, yes, good, I told you I could do it, love.” While you were catching your breath, I said, “Now turn your head to the side toward the mirrors. That’s right. I’m taking your blindfold off...now.”

“Baby.” You took in the image of me still on your lap. I was cradling your head in my arms and kissing your hair.

“I love you, Edge.”

And you will never forget it.

Your birthday approached as the blue-greens of summer became smudged with yellow ochre, and Èze was crowded with Parisians who had migrated south for their holidays. When I was a student, the turning of the calendar page from July to August was always fraught with psychological significance. Fully aware that we were sharing some of the happiest days of our lives, and those days were becoming shorter, all I wanted to do was slow them down and store you up. I was greedy for you, and we were increasingly reclusive. We listened to music and had long conversations that rambled into the wee hours. I loved watching your face soften as the night wore on. Your normally sharp and sometimes guarded expressions took on on a sleepy sweetness in the golden candlelight of the white room.

“Did you enjoy your meteor shower?” The fact that an annual meteor shower coincides with your birthday explains a lot, Edge.

“Always.”

“How does it feel to be turning 33?”

“A little strange. How did it feel for you, B?”

“It wasn’t much different from the others. There’s the Jesus thing, of course, but I was busy being the devil at the time.”

“You know, I can’t imagine dying at this age. I feel like we’ve just begun.”

“That we have.”

You grew thoughtful, and your eyes seemed to be sorting things out on the ceiling, so I let you have a moment. Then you gave a slight nod and looked at me. “Relationships run on stopwatches.” God, your face.

“Explain how.”

“I don’t know if this will make sense, but...okay. You’re Bono.”

“I _so_ am.”

“And you, Bono, have met lots of people in your life.”

“Literally dozens.”

Your hands became animated. “Alright, so imagine that when you meet someone for the first time, an imaginary stopwatch starts running. Like Cécile. We’ve known her for, what, seven weeks?”

“Sure.”

“So the Cécile stopwatch says seven weeks or whatever, and it keeps running for as long as you know her.”

“Okay.”

“And the vast majority of your relationships are like that. Meet someone; stopwatch begins running. Children are a little different. A countdown watch begins the moment you know they are on the way. Nine months, eight months, seven months, and so on until they are born. Then once they are born, the countdown watch turns into a stopwatch like with everyone else you meet.”

“Makes sense, Edge.”

“But.” You pulled me close, and I traced a finger over your collarbone. “Then there are the people you fall in love with. Like us. You know that odd feeling of recognition when we met for the first time?”

“Of course. I knew you were different. So was Ali. I just...something was special with both of you. Exceptional.”

“Okay, so with both of us, instead of the usual stopwatch appearing when you met us, you received a countdown watch. And it was a countdown to 'I love you.' With you and Ali, the countdown watch--which neither of you could see--ran for a year or so, let’s say.”

“Yeah.”

“And with you and me, it ran for about fifteen years. At which point we became lovers, and the countdown watch turned into a stopwatch.”

“Kind of a B.C./A.D. thing.”

“Right. So that odd feeling of recognition at the beginning is because some part of you knows that you’ve got a countdown situation instead of a stopwatch. And that strange countdown feeling intensifies as you get closer to feeling love for that person.”

I kissed your chin. “Wow.” I swear to god, I could listen to you talk forever in our house, in our room, in our bed, Edge.

Our visitors found much to love about our villa. I remember showing it to Michael for the first time. You were walking ahead of us on the beach and had waded into the water to examine a starfish. Michael looked up at our turret and asked, “So what goes on up there?”

I glanced at you somewhat bashfully. “It’s our bedroom,” I told him.

“Oh _is it_ now?” he said with a laugh.

“So I suppose the question is: what _doesn’t_ go on up there?”

He stared into the middle distance and nodded. “Yeah. Huh. I can’t say I’m all that surprised, Bono.”

“I’m afraid nobody is. I’m incredibly transparent. I think I’ve always loved Edge.”

“Of course you have. Some things are just inevitable, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“And...everyone _else_ is okay with this?”

“Yes, they are. Incredibly.”

“Fuck. That’s amazing.” I smiled. “Hey, Edge!” Michael called to you. “Congratulations!”

“On what?”

He put his arm around me. “This!”

You gave us a grin and a little salute before returning to your important maritime studies. “Jesus Christ, that man is perfection,” I said.

Later that night I showed Michael the album of photos Anton had taken of us just before the final leg of the tour. “Anton’s in love with you,” he said, pointing at the first black and white print.

I shook my head. “Anton's in love with the planes of my face. Edge loves _me._ ”

“Fair enough. But you are Anton’s muse.”

“I suppose. Occasionally I am. I was with these, anyway. He was taking a few photos of me for some magazine or other last year. Edge was around, and Anton noticed that our chemistry had intensified since the last time he had seen us. He’s very sensitive. So I told him he was right. He ended up shooting some more pictures of me with Edge as a sort of prop. Anton may or may not be jealous of Edge, but he can’t resist an artistic challenge.”

That was without a doubt my favorite photo session of all time, love. Michael studied the photos, which were clever. It’s us, but you didn’t show your face, so a viewer would have to know certain things about you to appreciate what was going on.

“A little too homoerotic for Rolling Stone, I’d imagine,” Michael chuckled, smiling at the one where I am seated on an obviously male lap, facing said male, his hands on my shirtless back and the waist of my leather pants while I blow smoke towards the ceiling.

“Hell, that was too homoerotic for _Details,_ ” I said.

Just one after another: a close-up of your teeth at my earring. My fingers running up bedazzled jeans. Your hands caressing my face with my head tipped back, eyes closed. My profile, looking up, and your index finger gently pulling my lower lip down. You tying a blindfold over my eyes.

“Look at those hands. It would be a crime not to document them.”

“You really are beautiful together.”

Reverent me kissing the neck of a certain unmistakable guitar. Worshipful me kissing the neck of a certain unmistakable guitarist. Aggressive me biting a trapezius muscle. Smug me confronting the camera with a leer as you comb my hair back from my forehead, your bare chest behind me.

And finally me in your arms, with no obfuscation. Just two lovers kissing, blissful and pure.

“See, it’s also a fun gift idea for Morleigh,” I told you when we looked at the album for the first time.

_Edge, I’m looking at those photos now. We need to do it again with me as your prop._

The cries of a seagull on the roof woke me up on our last morning there. We had left the windows open, and fog had rolled in overnight. The rising sun was in the process of burning it off, and our room was enveloped in a hazy, mother-of-pearl mist. Mother...when I was a little boy, she explained that fog was an actual cloud on the ground, an idea that fascinated me to no end. I liked to run around in fog, imagining that was what heaven was like. I rolled over to look at you in the celestial light. You were on your stomach, still asleep, and I watched the gentle rise and fall of your back as you inhaled and exhaled. Your pillowcase had created a rosy line beneath your left eye. Your shoulder was cool and ever-so-slightly damp from the humidity. I pulled the sheet down to study your skin--tan as it has ever been--along with certain clusters of freckles and that beloved whorl of hair just below the small of your back. It’s become a sort of security blanket for me, so of course I had to touch it. Your eyes opened.

“I’m always half-tempted to shave that or wax it or whatever,” you mumbled.

“Over my dead body, the Edge.”

You yawned. “I’m afraid Morleigh loves it, too.”

“Then it’s unanimous.”

You rolled onto your side and we looked at each other for a while. I moved down a bit and buried my face in your chest. There’s something special about chest hair--on the right man it can be incredibly comforting, soft yet hyper-masculine. I don’t think I could be with a man who didn’t have it--unless you didn’t have it. And what the hell; up until a few years ago I didn’t think I could be with a man at all. You’re clearly the exception to everything.

“Just wanna cuddle?” you asked.

“Yeah. Kinda sad.”

“Me too.”

I listened to your heart and counted several beats between each wave breaking outside our windows. “Give me something to think about once we’re back, Edge.”

“Something touching?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Okay. How about this…” You pulled me up, and your lips were at my temple. “I live to fuck you.”

“Oh yes, Edge. That should be sufficient.”

Later, after we had locked the house and said our goodbyes to Peach Boy, we put our bags in the trunk of the car and got settled in the back seat.

“Express route or scenic?”

“Scenic,” we said in unison, and you put up the partition.


	3. Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're in the late summer of 1996, a.k.a. pre-Pop era. This is an Edge chapter, and the next one will be from him as well. I didn't want to dump 10K words on everyone, especially since this one is so...divide-able. And sex scenes are hard to write, and I didn't want this to get lost in the shuffle of everything else that will happen during this two-week period.
> 
> So. This starts off with a quick September email from Edge to Bono, and those of you who were paying attention might recognize a reference to something that happened in Fetish. Then the bulk of this chapter is a narrative he wrote about Èze in August.
> 
> UGH! Sorry so weird. It'll make sense. I'm pretty sure. It's mostly sex, so...enjoy? The next chapter will not have nearly as much sex. It'll seem squeaky clean in comparison. I'm almost finished with it and should post it within a few days if not sooner. Thanks as always to you for reading this! 
> 
> PS I don't know how to speak or write French. Sorry for any inaccuracies!

_Baby. I need to see you tonight, if you can get away. It's nothing bad. I just want you, and I have for days, ever since that afternoon when you told me my guitar sounded like an airplane having an orgasm (christ). I know we've both been dealing with our families lately, but tonight I'm alone if you want to come over, or I suppose we could go to the hotel. But I know driving back into the city after spending a day in the studio is tiresome. You know what? Call me. Hopefully we’ll figure something out._

_I know we said we would save these stories for emergencies, and this happened only last month. So that should give you some idea of how much I need you in my bed tonight: I am willing to send you this (partial, with more to come) written account of August before the ink has had a chance to dry. I need a better way to say that in this digital age. Anyway. Read this, and please come see me, love._

_E.  
_

\-----

I suppose we wouldn’t be U2 if we actually met a deadline. After leaving Island outraged, disappointed, but sadly at our mercy, I proposed that we take a few weeks off with the hope of reconvening in September with fresh ears. Predictably, you were one hundred percent behind me on that one.

“Oh sure. I’m gonna love spinnin’ my wheels at home while you guys eat baguettes or whatever in your fuckin’ pink villa,” Larry said.

“You’re more than welcome to join us, Larry,” you said sweetly. He muttered something about having a lot of projects to deal with at his house, plus a little boy he probably should help raise. Adam had already checked out, and I could see the letters FI in his right eye and JI in his left eye, and a smirk on his face. “All civilized Europeans take their holidays in August,” you added. “That’s just a known fact.”

“ _Civilized,_ ” Larry laughed. “Have fun, you guys. I can’t wait to hear all the new songs you’re gonna bring back with you.”

We put our heads together and came up with a proposal for Ali and Morleigh. You and I would spend a week getting the villa set up for the following week, when they would join us along with your girls, and then we would devote the last week to songwriting. Or rather, “songwriting.” This would be the first time the four of us (plus two) would have a vacation together as a group, and thankfully Ali and Morleigh were open to this experimental idea.

While the villa had been in our possession for well over two years, we had only spent a few random weekends there following our summer of love. We were busy with other projects last year and couldn’t justify leaving Dublin, so when we arrived a few days into August, you and I had our work cut out for us: beds needed to be purchased and, in some tragic cases, assembled, and we had to think about buying things like linens, an oversized dining table, couches, lamps, dishes, and so on. But compared to the kind of work we had been doing, those tasks seemed mindless. Or, as you said while watching me allen-wrench a couple of children’s beds together, “This shit seems so fucking easy.” Obviously throwing money at these problems made that ease possible, and the internet came to the rescue repeatedly.

A joyous and jealous Peach Boy required quality time with you every afternoon, and Cécile was back on board for a few weeks. When we told her about the imminent arrival of two beautiful women and two beautiful girls, her initial confusion turned to horror. “Garçons, garçons…trop masculin,” she said, gesturing at various parts of the living room, and before we knew it, she was in the garden cutting roses and putting them in actual vases from her own home. She had also brought along some lovely throw pillows and blankets to accessorize our furniture, but as she started to arrange them, you approached her with an iceberg-destroying smile. “Cécile, mon chérie…” You bowed and presented her with a credit card. “Carte blanche.” Her stunned expression inspired you to wink and add, “S'il vous plaît?” Not even Cécile could say no to you.

I couldn’t, either. Any number of last-minute home improvement projects became temporarily postponed because you tapped on my shoulder, or you murmured an off-color suggestion, or you simply fucking walked through my field of vision. And I followed your (new, rose-colored) shorts upstairs to the white room again and again because we needed to get certain things out of our systems, at least for a little while.

Months of being trapped in the studio (and going along with Morleigh’s dancer’s diet) had left me pale and skinny, which you claimed to enjoy because it made me look “even more perverted than usual, especially with that mustache...daddy.” Meanwhile you were in tour-prep mode: weights and a treadmill had been moved into the studio, and you had made use of them during the downtime...so much downtime. As a result, you were in the best shape of your life, and I simply could not take my eyes or my hands off you.

While I don’t like to think that Ali and I are in any kind of competition for your love, that week I felt the need to make the sex relentless and unforgettable. I’m certain you had similar goals in mind, and your unnecessary romantic maneuvers intensified as the week passed.

The variety of menial tasks we took on distracted us from our frustrations with the album. Those simmered away on the back burner, and we decided to be open to any epiphanies that might come our way as we arranged furniture and cleaned things. Then, once we had finished with our preparations for the following week, we opened a bottle of wine on the second-floor balcony and watched the waves lap against the shore. Beachgoers began packing up their towels and chairs as another day of sunbathing came to a close. Your smiling gaze returned to me repeatedly, and after a while you set your glass down, snuggled up behind me, and toyed with my zipper.

“Pretty sky,” you said.

“Cirrus clouds. Some people call them mares’ tales.”

“Is that a fact.” You kissed my shoulder.

I paused. “They’ll be here tomorrow. How are we, B?”

“I’m feeling...I can’t really find the right word for it.”

“Okay.” I turned to face you.

“I’m feeling whatever it is that made me want to wear something blue,” you said, removing your sunglasses and revealing a squint that was outlined with a blue pencil you somehow had access to.

“My blue-eyed boy.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I know what you need.”

“Let’s go.”

I paused to turn on the downstairs stereo--we had been listening to the Chemical Brothers while setting up your daughters’ room--and I followed you up the steps. “What do I need, Edge?” you called over your shoulder, throwing your shirt on the floor and opening a couple of windows. Golden light flooded the room.

The table’s legs made a screeching sound as I dragged it and one of the chairs to the center of the room. “You need me to fuck you so hard you’ll remember it.”

You turned around. “Edge.”

I sat down and you were between my legs in an instant, kissing your way up my thighs. Your hands returned to my zipper. “The more I look at it, the more I want it,” you sighed as I stroked your hair. “And the more I want it, the more I need it.” We rose and kissed until our faces became abraded with beard burns and I felt lightheaded. _You’re hers but you’re also mine,_ I thought. I knew I shouldn't mark you that night, but I did want to leave an impression.

We had used the table a few times before. I knew you appreciated its brutish simplicity. While I was always careful not to hurt you, a part of you craved a bit of primal male aggression, and I was happy to give it to you. The room was stagnant and almost uncomfortably warm, and your neck tasted salty and slick. We shed the rest of our clothing, and I bent you over that table. I smiled to myself and thought about the innocent life the table might have led before I bought it at the antique store. Perhaps it held a carpenter’s tool chest, or maybe a mechanic ate his lunch at it every day. Now it was an occasional sex platform for a couple of rock stars who painted it white and stored x-rated toys in its drawer.

The two of us looked out at the sky--yellow and blue streaked with orange feathers--and I gently and then less gently prepared you for me. Your hands grasped the table’s corners, and the muscles of your arms and back created a glistening, undulating sight for me to behold as you whimpered and cooed. “The sun is a star, love, and you’re a star. You’re the sun,” I said abstractly.

“You’re the sun, too.”

“Yes, baby.”

You were perfectly relaxed, and it didn't take long for you to start begging. “Dear god, fuck me, Edge, please,” you repeated. Slowly and carefully, I penetrated you. A cool breeze swept through the room, and we sighed with pleasure.

“I come first.”

You moaned and held me in a vice-like grip. “No guarantees, but I’ll try.”

“You feel so good, love.” You always do. It’s always shocking.

“I suppose you have plans for me?”

Did I? Where even was I? “Of course I do.” I ran my free hand over your shoulder blades and down your spine, and when I began a series of slow, deliberate thrusts, you gasped and murmured dark endearments. I love how you turn sex into a kind of performance. You’re determined to seduce those you’ve already seduced and are alternately vulnerable or guns-blazing on your journey to liftoff. You looked back at me--unsurpassed beauty--and I caressed your dear face with its doubly blue eyes. My hands grasped your hips, and I pulled you toward me, resisting the urge to dig my nails in. My fingers became trapped between you and the tabletop occasionally, but I barely noticed. It whined beneath us and shifted a few inches along the floor as I took you there in the white room, whose walls had become a muted rose, the same color as your lips, your cheeks, your nipples, your gifted tongue, your sunburnt ears, your perfect cock.

The room and everything else faded to a color that was whiter than white, and I cried out your name because _You should always let me know Edge you should never be quiet I need to hear it I need to feel it I need to know_. When I opened my eyes, you were studying me, your face flushed and damp. Then it was back to the sky and the two of us panting with the sun in our eyes.

_Baby._

Once I felt like I could stand again, I turned you around--poor, patient you--and noticed the table had left a pink horizontal line across your lower abdomen. I kissed it and had you lie on your back so your lower legs were dangling off one side of the table. “We can get those later,” you said, watching me pick up our shirts. Then you murmured a quick “oh” as I used them to tie your ankles to the table’s legs. I admired my handiwork and pointed at the window.

You glanced over your left shoulder at the riot of pinks and purples surrounding a large, falling orange disk. “Again, pretty sky.” I kissed your sunset-colored body--pale gold and copper decorated with tawny, dusky accents, the aforementioned rose details, and two watchful blue eyes. “What wouldst thou with me, the Edge?” you asked with a grin.

I bit your fleshy little ear and told it, “You’re going to come the second that sun disappears.”

“News to me.” You stretched your arms over your head and gave me a moment to take in every handsome inch of your body. The hair under your arms flowed like water into the hair on your chest and stomach, and down to your sadly neglected cock.

“I think I know you well enough to be able to make it happen.”

“I’m not gonna fight it, but good luck all the same,” you said casually, as if people attempt this all the time with you. Actually, if you gave them the opportunity, I’m certain a different person would happily try to make this happen for you every night for an untold number of lifetimes.

I whispered, “Just tell me when you get close.”

“If you insist.”

Kissing your darling lips and dragging my hand down your taut, wet torso, I said, “I’m in charge. I say when.”

“I love it.”

I figured I had about fifteen minutes to work with, so I spent my time pleasing you in as many ways as I could think of using my hands and mouth. Certain tell-tale signs appeared: bucking hips, trembling legs, blushing cheeks. You opened the door to your treasury of moans, and one after another they tumbled out and fell at my feet. “I’m close,” you managed to say a couple of times, at which point I paused, praised you, and checked the sun. Thanks to an afternoon swim, your body smelled like my childhood collection of bleached seashells, along with the kind of warm spices I have in the kitchen but don’t know how to use. I wanted to drink you in because above all, you smelled...male. You were a well-built, sexually-aroused male in the prime of his life, and you were close. So close. The bottom of that blushing sun kissed the horizon, and taking your chin in my hand, I turned your head to the side so you could watch it some more.

“Dream lover,” you sighed.

“Do you dream about me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you dream about these hands?”

“Yes.”

“This mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Baby.”

“And that imagination...fuck, please let me come.”

“Yes.”

My hands and mouth (and I suppose my imagination) took over. Your head snapped back and your chest rose...five variations of my name flew out the windows and chased the sun to the other side of the world.

_Baby._

Later we stood by the window and watched what was left of the sunset. You lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out into the sky where it became part of the twilight. The tilt of my head when you coughed must have made you feel the need to explain yourself. “I think the smokes are changing my voice for the better, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s sexier, wouldn’t you say? I don’t sound like a girl anymore.” You put your arm around my waist, and I pulled you closer. Your voice had become slightly problematic in the studio, and I knew that must have disturbed you, but apparently not enough to stop smoking.

“I love your voice no matter what it sounds like.”

_And I always will, B._

You tapped the cigarette on an empty tin of French fruit candies you had repurposed into an ashtray and studied its glowing orange end. “Singing is so weird. My lungs and some folds in my throat and everything in my mouth helps me produce sounds people like. You make your living hitting strings on a board and I make mine by blowing air out of my face in a fun way.”

“It doesn’t hurt that you look exceptionally cute while doing so.”

You preened a bit. “Likewise, Edge.”

My hand moved down your arm. “Sex is weird, too. If you described what we just did in a technical way like that…”

“It’s actually hilarious.”

“It really is.”

You stretched your neck and glanced behind you. “Hey, moonrise.” The full moon, pale and golden, had cleared the horizon without us knowing it, and we walked across the room to watch it. You grabbed a blanket along the way.

“Awfully sneaky of it, spying on us,” I said.

“I like how unless you’re a student of the moon or whatever, you never know when you’ll see it. Half the time it's out during the day.”

“Moon school.” I wrapped the blanket around our shoulders.

“Heh, moon school.”

We were quiet for a while, and I thought about Ali and Morleigh, and how unknowable women can be sometimes, and how you and I and maybe a few dozen other people in the world understand what it’s like to make highly personal creations and perform them in front of stadiums full of fans. I thought about how that experience must have changed us forever, hopefully for the better. What kind of men would we be otherwise?

You looked like you had been sculpted from white marble with blue veins. “I want to tell the world about us, Edge,” you whispered.

“I know you do.” I kissed your forehead.

“If they ask, we’ll tell them.”

“That’s the plan as of last month, anyway.”

“I just like that we have one now.”

Placing my hands on either side of your face, I tilted your head up and kissed you. Our eyes stayed open. Then I pressed my forehead against yours and looked into your eyes some more--your nearness made it seem like they had become a single eye that was blinking at me. “I love you,” I said.

We got in bed and you made the sheet billow over us like a rapidly-deflating white tent. Our bodies locked together the way they seem to do automatically now: my arm around your shoulders, your head and hand near my heart, your thumb making idle circles in my chest hair. It’s as if our bodies have always wanted to do this. “How open do you want to be tomorrow?” I asked.

“I figured we’d take our cues from Ali and Morleigh. Obviously Morleigh’s cool. And Ali and I have a psychic link at this point. I’m just gonna _know_ if she feels uncomfortable. And I will send that information over to you via our own psychic link. Easy.”

 _Easy._ I kissed your hair. “And the girls?”

“They’ll be fine. They love you. Don’t worry about it, Edge, okay?”

“It’s just--”

“We’re one big happy family.”

“I want it to stay that way.”

“It will.” You sighed contentedly. “Edge.”

“Bono.”

I could feel you smiling against my chest. “My life’s trajectory has brought me to this beautiful place. And so has yours.”

“My love.”

“By the way, that thing with the sunset and the table--did you get that from the Internet?”

“I'm afraid that was all me.”

“Good.”


	4. Deep Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter concludes what Edge wrote in Rose. As threatened, it describes their second week in August and is about as wholesome as I get. The next chapter will be Bono's take on all of this. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it! Thank you very much for reading. <3

_Thank you for coming to see me, love. “I believe I have been summoned…?” was about all you were able to say last night before I was all over you. Sorry for not being a better host, but...well, you know what happened. You were happy to oblige my need to lose myself and just fucking worship you, and later, to study you and touch you and stare at you openly. I felt powerless before you, and I can’t bring myself to tell you why, not just yet. But I will one day._

_Here’s the rest of what happened in August, and regarding the last paragraph, we are indeed trying. And I will love the two of you forever._

_E._

\-----

Our girls were scheduled to arrive before noon, and Cécile took it upon herself to prepare lunch for all of us. She did not have to do that, of course, but we knew she wanted to get a look at our strange family, so we encouraged her and tried not to steal bites. Earlier in the week and against my wishes, you told her we would also be celebrating my birthday a few days late (via a drawing of a cake with a candle on it alongside a caricature of my face). I opened the refrigerator and discovered a plum tart in a pan I recognized as Cécile’s, and she caught me peeking at it. “Non non non!” she protested, laughing and wielding a knife she was using to slice a cantaloupe. 

We met the car near the driveway behind the house, and one by one four lovely creatures emerged from it, all of them smiling and looking like flowers in their light summer dresses. “Daddy!” your daughters shrieked in unison, and each of them grabbed a leg while Ali swanned over and embraced you. Morleigh dropped her bags on the ground and raced to me, her head on a swivel as she attempted to take in her surroundings. “Gorgeous,” she declared before kissing me. 

“As are you.”

“Can I interest you ladies in a house tour?” you asked winningly, and soon we were showing them through the rather ridiculous number of rooms, a third of which were semi-finished. “A work in progress,” you explained.

“It could use a woman’s touch,” I said. 

“If you’re feeling bored this week.” You shrugged, and Ali and Morleigh grinned at the carte blanche implication.

You caught Cécile watching us from the kitchen. “Bonjour, Cécile! C’est Ali, Morleigh, Jordan, Eve. Ladies, this is Cécile. She has been taking care of us.”

“Quatre belles filles,” she beamed.

“What does that mean, Daddy?”

You lifted Jordan and spun her around, saying, “Four beautiful girls, darling.”

“Merci beaucoup,” Ali said to Cécile almost apologetically while glancing at us with a raised eyebrow.

“Non, très charmant,” she said. “Très beau.”

“Oui.”

Your girls were delighted with their big sunny room and the two plush cats that sat on their beds, and Ali and Morleigh approved of our rose-bedecked bedrooms as well. You and Ali would be in a corner room close to your daughters, and Morleigh and I had the opposite sea-facing corner. 

Finally we led them upstairs to the white room. Eve skipped to the center of the floor and spun around, announcing, “This is the funnest room of all!”

You chuckled and took my hand. “This is our room. Edge and me. This is where we sleep when nobody else is here.” Apparently we were going to do this.

We had the girls’ undivided attention. “They share this room the way you girls share your room…?” Morleigh volunteered, glancing at Ali for assistance. 

Ali bent down so she and the girls were at the same height. “Do you love Edge?”

The three of them looked over at me. “Yes.”

“So does Daddy.” Eve and Jordan nodded. “They are in love the same way Mommy and Daddy are in love.”

“Boys can love each other?”

“Of course they can, baby.”

You looked at me and blinked a few times before releasing my hand and joining Ali and the girls on the floor. Eve climbed onto your lap. “How many people do you love, Evie?”

She looked at the ceiling and raised one finger after another. “This many,” she said, displaying nine little fingers. “Nine.”

Ali hugged Jordan. “You love me, so do you love Daddy any less?”

“I love you both the same.”

“You have room in your hearts for everyone you love, girls. I love Mommy, and I love Edge. And I love you. I always will.”

Jordan thought about it. “What about Morleigh?”

You and Morleigh laughed, and we joined you on the floor. “Well, I love her, too! I love everybody in this pretty white room.” I kissed your cheek, and the girls smiled at us. 

_And that was how we told them. You and Ali and your girls are miraculous, B._

We went back downstairs and found the sumptuous late summer feast Cécile had laid out on our dining table. She was gone, but she left a card for me by the tart that sat on a cake stand. It was in French, of course, so I let you translate it. “Something like...happy birthday dear man blessed with two beautiful loves.” 

“Seriously?”

“I think. I’m a little rusty.”

We quickly established a seating arrangement that lasted the entire week: you and I sat across from each other with Ali and Morleigh beside us, and the girls sat next to them. Jordan and Eve thought my birthday was a very big deal, and they sang happy birthday to me a couple of times. At one point I noticed that Eve was staring at me.

“Hi, Eve.”

“You? Are _old._ ”

“Eve, there’s a nicer way to say that,” Ali said.

“But why? Being old is good. I wanna be old, too!”

You grinned. “I’m actually a little bit older than Edge.”

“Daddy, you are _very_ old.”

“Is that good, too?”

“It’s just okay.” 

They were tired from traveling, so we spent the rest of the day relaxing by the pool. You and Ali played with the girls, both of whom were still learning how to swim, and Morleigh and I watched you from chaise lounges in the shade. A gust of wind blew her hair into a frenzy of brunette spirals.

“Well, there goes that hair idea,” she said, attempting to organize it with her hands and pulling the omnipresent elastic band from her wrist.

“But I love it wild like that.” 

The band went back on the wrist where it joined a collection of lapis lazuli bracelets. They made pleasant clinking sounds whenever she moved. “I thought this might be the one place on earth where I would be safe from frizz.”

“You’re beautiful no matter what, Morleigh.” I kissed her hand. “At least the mistral won’t hit us this week.” Knowing she is a fan of severe weather phenomena, I told her about the infamous wind storm that blasts the south of France with sixty mile per hour gusts and can last as long as a month. Halfway through my description, I suspected she was already familiar with this storm.

“I’d like to be here for that, actually,” she said with a grin. 

“Did you know about it before I started talking?”

She shrugged and caressed my cheek. “Yes. I just like to hear your take on things.”

Ali was treading water near the diving board and trying to coax Jordan into jumping off, while you laughed and pushed a shrieking Eve around in an inflatable unicorn. She whispered something to you, and the two of you got out of the water and padded into the house, dripping wet and holding hands.

“Bathroom break?”

“Probably.”

Jordan finally jumped off the diving board, and we applauded and whistled when she bobbed to the surface. “Did she do it?” you yelled, returning with Eve.

“I did it, Daddy!”

“Well, I wanna see. Do it again!”

Morleigh and I adjusted our chairs so we could lie flat while the four of you continued to play. Her hand dangled over the side of her chair, and I took it. “He looks so different.”

“Our little superman.”

“Just when I feel like I have the perfect adjective for him, he changes.”

“True.”

“I like him with shorter hair like that,” she said. “Do you?”

“I really do.”

“Oh, you _really_ do?” she laughed. “Cute little shorts, too. You should get some like that.”

“Maybe I will, love.”

She squeezed my hand, and we debated which was sexier, skimpy clothes or nothing at all, and declared skimpy the winner. As I was appreciating our easy rapport, a plump orange cat approached us and regarded us seriously. “Oh my god. That’s not _the_ Peach Boy, is it?”

“Morleigh, Peach Boy. Peach Boy, Morleigh.” He jumped onto my ass and turned around in multiple circles in a futile attempt to turn it into your ass. The girls picked up on this development and squealed with glee.

“Peach Boy, you little two-timer!” you shouted in mock outrage.

“Everybody loves everybody here, Daddy,” Jordan said, getting out of the pool to pet our friend.

The afternoon faded into the evening, and we grazed on leftovers from lunch and took turns entertaining the girls. We were just about to turn in for the night when you asked me, “When is the meteor shower?”

“Tonight? It’s usually very late; I’m not sure. Want me to look it up?”

“Would you?”

During the wee hours of the morning, 2:00 to be exact, Morleigh and I met you on the long balcony that connected all of the second floor rooms and sat under blankets with our backs against the wall. You held my left hand and she held my right hand, and together we watched the Perseids streak across the navy blue sky. “Happy birthday, Edge,” you said quietly, resting your head on my shoulder.

“We love you.” Morleigh kissed my cheek and looked at us with great affection. I have never felt more at peace.

The next morning I woke up alone in a non-white room (it was one of those tasteful, unnameable gray-beiges). Meteor shower notwithstanding, Morleigh was an early-riser, and I found her running through a series of impressive yoga poses on the beach. 

“Hey, beautiful.”

“Could I be more of a cliché out here?”

“California dancer girl communing with nature at sunrise? Probably not.”

“Join me, Zen master.”

I attempted to mimic her impossible movements but ultimately decided to do my own thing, which was hanging out in Downward Dog and watching upside-down waves for an extended period of time. 

“Well, if it isn’t the human pretzel, and what are you trying to be, Reg? Some kind of triangle?” Morleigh laughed, and we stood up. You were drinking a cup of coffee. “Want the rest?” you said, handing it to me.

“Sure.”

“Good morning, incidentally,” you smiled, kissing both of our cheeks. “Morleigh, please remind me if I forget--I would love it if you’d teach me some disco moves.”

She gasped. “Seriously? I would be all about that.”

“Yeah. We’re doing a video for _Discotheque_ soon. Some French guy is directing…? We might be wearing Village People costumes.”

“Holy shit.”

“And I’ll probably need to know what I’m doing. Edge, too.”

Morleigh looked like she was about to burst out of her skin. “You have made my day with this news, I hope you know. Possibly my life.” She grinned at me and started jumping up and down, and you joined her. “I have so many ideas!”

“Have fun, you guys,” I said, walking back to the house.

“Let’s do it now!”

“You read my mind. The Edge? Could you play something appropriate on the stereo?” 

“Please?”

“Of course.”

It was a little early to be blasting _Disco Inferno_ , but the beach was still deserted, save for two dancers whom I love dearly. I set the volume to something reasonable and watched from the balcony as Morleigh attempted to teach you some moves using her trademark mix of patience, humor, and near-pathological enthusiasm. I had finished your coffee when Ali and the girls joined me. Eve and Jordan saw what was going on with their father, and they scampered down to the shore.

“Grand morning, isn’t it?” Ali said with a yawn.

“It is.”

“I’ll always associate this song with getting to know one Paul David Hewson.”

“Yeah...I guess it would have been popular in 1976.”

She was eating a croissant and paused to brush some of its crumbs from her white dress. “I wasn’t too cool to like it. He and I were at this dumpy little pub on one of our first dates, and he was telling me about all these bands I really needed to listen to. They were so much better than ‘that disco shite’ everyone was playing, including the pub.”

“He really had everything all figured out, didn’t he?”

Ali chuckled. “Oh, absolutely he did. So he was pontificating about music, really trying to impress me. And then _Disco Inferno_ came on, and I caught him grooving along to it, and so I did the same, and we both kind of mouthed, _Burn the mother down_.” I laughed. “And he smiled that smile of his--(Ali mimicked you)--and he said ‘This song is the fookin’ best, though.’”

I shook my head. “My god, that was twenty years ago.” 

“Wow, you’re right.” I glanced down at your clumsily-dancing form and instinctively returned my attention to Ali. She put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a gentle pat. “It’s okay, Edge. You can look at him. You can touch him. He loves you, and this has been good for him. It’s been good for us.”

“Ali.”

“Please don’t worry about it anymore, love. I’ve had almost five years to get used to this, and I’m not going anywhere. You’re part of our family at this point, as far as I’m concerned. A crucial part.”

This wife of yours, Bono, I swear. I looked into her kind eyes. “You’re the queen of his heart.”

“And you are the king.” We were quiet for a bit, until your antics with Morleigh forced us to laugh. “The little goof,” Ali said, beaming at you.

Later that morning, she and Morleigh walked through the unfinished rooms. Chatting contentedly, they drew diagrams and wrote notes on a pad of my graph paper, and later they ventured into Éze to look for...whatever it is women look for when it comes to decorating a villa. 

“Almost like a couple of sisters,” I said as we waved to them from the back entrance.

“Both of them are easy to love, so the fact that they get along so well isn’t a huge surprise. But oh man, thank god they do, you know?”

“Imagine the alternative.”

You shuddered. “Perish the thought.”

We decided to take Eve and Jordan on a walk to some of our favorite places--just a couple of gay dads and their daughters having adventures. Hand in hand with the girls between us, we walked four abreast along the beach, stopping to examine the occasional seashell, colorful rock, or piece of driftwood. 

“Are you girls hungry?” you asked.

“Yes you are, Daddy,” Jordan said with a hint of juvenile sarcasm. I squeezed her hand, and she smiled at me. 

“I think we should take them to Édouard’s, don’t you, Edge?”

“Sure.”

You squatted down to talk to them, and I joined you. “Now girls. I want you to know that children in France are very grown-up. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

I winked at you. “It’s almost spooky.”

“Yes! It _is_ spooky, and kind of old-fashioned.” Your blue eyes twinkled.

“Are they ghosts?” Eve asked.

“You know, they are kind of like ghosts. They’re quiet, beautifully dressed, and they eat grown-up food. No whining, no messing around. They are so well-behaved. Spooky, right? So I don’t want you to feel scared if you see a French child when you go in there. This is just how they are, and they probably won’t mind you girls too much.”

“Probably. I wonder if Jordan and Eve...nah.”

“No, what, Edge?”

“I was just wondering if the girls could pretend to be French...? Just for today…?”

“Oh I don’t think they…”

“We could be French! We could do it!” Jordan grinned.

“Do you wanna try? Edge and I could pretend to be French, too.”

“We are a French family!”

Your bizarre little mind game actually worked, and the girls were on their best behavior as they ate their sandwiches, but they would not stop staring at the small, quiet girl wearing a black dress a few tables away.

Édouard greeted us like a couple of long-lost friends. I could tell his mind was heaving with curiosity about our companions, but he was too polite to pry, especially in front of the children. I noticed him studying their faces when he set a plate of complimentary treats in front of them, undoubtedly trying to figure out whose they were. The resemblance between you and the girls was too striking for them to be adopted, but then how…? Édouard had lots of unanswered questions, and he received a handsome tip.

Mme. Rousseau was so happy to see us that she emerged from behind her counter to give us each a kiss and marvel at Jordan and Eve. “Mien,” you said, taking their hands. She seemed justifiably confused, so you asked for a scrap of brown paper and a pen. I led the girls to the special place where fancy candies were on display while you drew a diagram of yourself, me, Ali, and Morleigh, and the girls, with explanatory hearts. 

“L'amour est beau et compliqué,” she concluded.

“Love is beautiful and complicated,” you called to me.

I walked over with the girls to kiss you. “Toujours l'amour,” I said. 

“Love always,” you replied, proud of me whenever I tried to speak French.

Mme. Rousseau studied us--we had changed a bit over the past couple of years, but she had not--and she wiped a tear from her eye. Then she returned to her post, and following a flurry of activity, she handed us a jar of blackberry jam and madeleines for Eve and Jordan. And one for you. And one for me.

The week fell into a relaxing pattern of easy days and romantic nights. Morleigh and I took care of Jordan and Eve on alternating evenings so you and Ali could have some time alone, and you did the same. One afternoon, after the heat of the day began to relent, I took Morleigh and the girls up the hill to look at the medieval parts of Éze and its cactus garden. We walked up and down winding paths that snaked around the tightly-packed, vine-covered stone buildings. They were straight out of the girls’ beloved _Beauty and the Beast._ Had Morleigh and I been there by ourselves, we would have lost track of time gazing out at the sea from this dizzyingly high citadel and getting confused on its enchanting dead-end streets. But we were not alone, and our little friends did not have attention spans like ours, and eventually they were on oppressive-stone-wall and old-world-charm overload. 

They loved the cactus garden, though. We held their hands because it was situated on top of a cliff, and anyone with a fear of heights would have found the garden’s sweeping views of the sea and the rooftops of the village daunting. “We are on top of the world,” Jordan said, turning in a careful circle and surrounded by diagonal shadows. I showed them where our villa was--barely visible from that vantage point and satisfyingly tiny. 

Narrow walkways and steps led us through a vast selection of cacti and succulents in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some of them had thorns that were truly intimidating, but others were covered with soft-looking filaments that reminded me of the hair on your arms. “This one is _so cute!_ ” Jordan said, pointing at a squat, round cactus crowned with an elaborate pink bloom. It was one of perhaps two dozen other plants that were also _so cute!_.

Perfumed flowers and the breeze from the sea combined to form a beautiful fragrance, and the stylized, elongated sculptures of female figures that decorated the garden created an exceptionally romantic setting. “They don’t have any arms,” Eve protested, pointing at one of the sculptures. 

“I think they have shawls around them,” Morleigh said, taking her own royal blue shawl from her shoulders and draping it around Eve.

“I’m a queen,” she announced, proceeding down the path in a stately way and trailing the end of the shawl behind her. 

Morleigh leaned over to examine a plump, seafoam-green plant composed of marshmallow-like forms. “Every fiber of my being wants me to squeeze one of these things until it pops,” she said, barely touching the plant with her fingertip. “That’s it!” she said, looking up at me. “I have the new adjective for Bono.”

“What’s that?”

“ _Succulent._ ”

I laughed in agreement. Eve returned with the now-dusty shawl. She draped it over Morleigh’s backlit hair, and she stood, smiling down at your beaming daughter as a breeze whipped around them. “Thanks, sweetie.”

The sight took my breath away. “You look like the Virgin Mary,” I said.

She chuckled. “I’m afraid that ship sailed long, long ago, Edge.”

“No. You do.” Eve hid her eyes as I took Morleigh in my arms and kissed her. “I adore you.”

“My love.” 

We caught up with the girls and followed them as they took in the rest of the strange and lovely garden at their own pace. “Edge,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“You know I kind of pride myself on being a cheap date.”

“The absolute cheapest,” I teased.

“Well, even so…” She smiled and looked at your girls. They were holding hands and singing a made-up song. “I want one,” she said, turning to me with shining eyes.

I quickly processed that statement and kissed her again. “Oh yes. Of course. My god, so do I.”

“Let’s try.”

I wiped the happy tears from her cheeks. “Yes. Let’s try.” I held her for a moment, until we heard an impatient foot stamping and the giggling of your precious daughters, who were blessed with their father’s eyes, his smile, his charm, and many, many other things.


	5. Dove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are back at Bono POV now, and he will finish the August 1996 story. It starts out wholesome and ends in a way that is not wholesome.
> 
> Randomly: Edge's "six weeks of work in one week" is a direct quote. I don't know if that restaurant existed in 1996, but it does now, and I don't know if Bono has a suit like that, but he should. I believe Edge is an introvert, and after dealing with people other than Bono or Morleigh, I think he would enjoy a nap. There is a line near the end of this chapter that happened completely by accident, but I cracked up when I noticed it, and I hope you do, too. "Dove," to some, is a color.
> 
> In my Bedge universe, this chapter precedes Fetish. So if you haven't read that yet and want to know what happened at the beginning of Popmart, now would be a fun time to do it. The next chapter I write here will be post-Fetish. :)
> 
> Thanks to PJ for fielding my panicky "IS THIS WORD OKAY TO USE" question yesterday (apologies if it offends you; I guess you'll know it when you see it, but there's no other word for it, and she and I think it's okay), and to fouroux for sending me a picture of Edge's outstretched arm and asking me to imagine it on a pillow--that was a few weeks ago. I immediately knew how I could use it. <3
> 
> Thanks for reading and encouraging me! This chapter took over my life. I hope you enjoy.

_Edge, do you have any idea how often I’ve returned to your message from last month (dated 21/9/96, subject: Please Baby, wherein you begged me to come over because you’d been wanting me for days, _days_ , you poor thing, followed by a positively filthy story about a table and a sunset)? The answer is many times. So many times. _

_I thought the cellophane-wrapped carnations I picked up at the gas station were an inspired touch--I actually went out of my way to buy you cheap flowers, I hope you realize. You saw them, didn’t you? I was two steps inside your foyer when you appeared, simultaneously wound-up and visibly relieved. In your black sweater with a white t-shirt underneath, you radiated the kind of perverse ecclesiastical hotness that, had I been exposed to it during my formative years, I would have signed up to join your order in a hurry. Appropriately enough, you fell to your knees in front of me. The rest of it is kind of a blur*, and honestly I have no idea what happened to those carnations._

_You have been all-business in the studio ever since, although now it’s easier for me persuade you to take breaks (“Edge, can I borrow you for a moment?”, “Edge, I’m getting measured for my costumes, wanna watch?”, “Edge, just...c’mere”). And we’d usually end up in what I like to think of as Our Room, i.e. that small multipurpose room with the door that locks from the inside and a reliably sturdy table._

_As beneficial as these breaks must be for you, I can tell you remain under a lot of pressure. When other people ask you how the album is coming along, you tend to say things like, “There’s six weeks of work to be done in one week.” We all feel it, of course, but it absolutely hits you the hardest, and this has been a very long autumn indeed._

_Off-topic: do you want your wallet back? I found it earlier today when we were trying on prototypes of the aforementioned costumes. Once you managed to remove your eyeballs from my crotch and my backside (christ, those pants were rather shocking, weren’t they?), you applauded the muscle shirt. I think they’re suitably insane given what we’re trying to accomplish. Adam’s orange jumpsuit and face mask worked well with his bemused expression. Last month I overheard Larry talking with our designer, telling him, “Whatever you’re doing with the others, I want you to take it down a notch for me. Make that five notches. Look, I just sit behind the drums and no one even sees me.” He was relatively pleased and was laughing at Adam and me when you walked in wearing your white cowboy costume, and we all just fucking lost it. You were utterly superb, Edge._

_Anyway, as I was changing back into my normal clothes, I noticed your wallet on a chair, and that’s when I knew your stress level had reached a crisis situation. The Edge simply does not lose things like that. I took the opportunity to snoop, of course. Nice driver’s licence photo, love, although you’ll probably need to update it because that goatee is very 1994. I admired(?) the way you organize your money, with each denomination folded in a unique way, you absolute maniac. And how could I resist flipping through your adorable selection of family photos: Morleigh, Arran, Hollie, Blue, and...me. Twice. Both snipped from Anton’s contact sheets: one with me wearing a pulled-taut diamond necklace, and the other with your hands combing my hair. I’m touched, Edge._

_Do you want it back? I will be in the Garden Terrace suite tonight at 8:00, expecting you. If for some reason you cannot meet my terms, I will destroy one (1) bill of my choice for every night in which you fail to appear._

_As a further incentive, please allow me to take you back to those idyllic, sunny days in Èze a couple of months ago. Awfully thoughtful of you to write about the first half of our getaway so I could describe the rest._

_Love, B._

_*it isn’t a blur_

\-----

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Eve?”

She glanced at you. You were on the phone with the company in charge of the villa’s security system, I think. Then Eve gave me a sly look. “Do you kiss him?”

“Yes. What do you think about that?”

She nodded and said, “It’s okay,” and blithely scampered into the kitchen.

Later on, the girls and I were coloring--I put Bugs Bunny in your cowboy costume--and Jordan said, “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there, darlin’?”

“Daddy loves Edge.” They giggled.

“Daddy loves Edge who?”

“Daddy loves Edge who is right over there.” The three of us burst into laughter, and, engrossed in a book, you raised a hand and waved without looking up.

So you and I are objects of great curiosity and hilarity for the girls, and I’m taking that as an excellent sign. They are reacting to this the way they might with any childhood romance among their little friends. Obviously they have always loved you, Edge, but now an aura of intrigue surrounds you. I apologize for their relentless gaping that week, but I can’t say I blame them. I’m as guilty as anyone. I am, in fact, the guiltiest.

Morleigh caught me doing just that one afternoon by the pool. You and everyone else were napping, and you were wearing my old blue shorts I had found in the laundry room and made you try on.

She tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Never not devastating, right?”

“One hundred percent.” We smiled at each other. “I was just wondering if he needed sunscreen.”

“Knowing him, it’s already on. And anyway, do you think the sun could even begin to penetrate”--(she ran a finger up and down her chest)--“that?” You began to stir, so we headed inside for some cool drinks.

“In your experience, does he ever sweat?” I asked, sweating. 

“Rarely. It’s like seeing Halley’s comet.” 

“Annoying.”

“Completely.” She filled a couple of glasses with ice and poured lemonade for the two of us. “Here,” she said, pressing my glass against my neck. “Old dancer’s trick. Cools you right down.”

“Indeed it does.”

Through some sort of feminine witchcraft, a single pin was holding her hair in place, and when she tugged on the pin, her beautiful hair tumbled down, seemingly three sizes larger than what I had seen earlier that day. 

“I used to have long hair, too, you know.”

She laughed. “Yeah, you may have had it long, but you have _absolutely no idea_ what it’s like to carry this thing around on your head all day. It’s basically a high-maintenance bear cub.”

I ran my hand over my shorter hair. “I definitely don’t have that problem now.”

She smiled. “Edge likes it. I asked him the other day, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?”

“Actually he said he _really_ likes it. Direct quote.” I peacocked and made a kissy face at oblivious you through the window. She gave me a sidelong glance. “I’m pretty sure he has some kind of thing for **I’m afraid the rest of this sentence is classified, Edge**. If you ever wanna blow his mind someday.”

“Heh, interesting. I’ll take that under advisement.”

Morleigh sipped her lemonade and watched Jordan, who had awakened and was gently prodding Ali. “Bono, your girls are so adorable.”

“That they are.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if Edge has told you this, but we’re going to try to have a baby.”

I swallowed. “You are? How marvelous. He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Well, it was just last night when we discussed it for the first time, and I’m sure he’s trying to figure out the right way to tell you, but...somehow I felt the need to let you know. Ali, too.”

I gave her a hug. “Well, I couldn’t be happier for you, love. You’ll have the most beautiful genius child, you know.”

Later that afternoon, I followed you into the garden where I stole a kiss and said, “Morleigh told me, and I think it’s wonderful.”

You paused. “There’s no--”

“No problem at all. I love you.”

You tipped my chin up and studied my eyes. “I love you, Bono.”

“Always.”

We returned to the others hand in hand.

Before Morleigh, Ali, and the girls arrived, you had made a chart on the refrigerator’s dry-erase board. In much the same way I’d imagine an executive makes plans for his company, you outlined the various getaways and responsibilities of that week so they could be read at a glance. That (last) evening: _A/B: La Chèvre d'Or, E/M: girls, here._

Because she deserves nothing less, I wanted to take Ali to the best, most romantic restaurant in medieval Èze. If that meant I had to wear a jacket and tie, so be it. The last time she and I were in Rome, Ali had convinced me to get a bespoke suit “to celebrate your hard work on the studio’s treadmill.” I suspect she was also tired of seeing me in jacket sleeves that were too long and the usual ill-fitting trousers. Mr. Valentino had come up with a gorgeous suit in a summer-weight wool that was “exactly one shade brighter than navy,” which seemed very important to him at the time, and what do I know? Here’s what I know, Edge: despite your best efforts to disguise it, the expression on your face when you saw me wearing it was one of pure greed, and that’s when I knew it was worth the considerable trouble and expense. 

We told the girls to be good for you and Morleigh. “Have a fun date!” Eve said, twirling.

“We won’t be too late,” I said, passing you and giving your hand a squeeze.

I need to show you the church up there someday, Edge. Ali and I explored it before supper. Your cactus garden is divine, but that yellow-ochre structure is the true star of Èze, and I had long-wanted to see what was inside. Ali found a small plaque near the entrance that said the bell tower was the highest point in the village, and as such it received so many lightning strikes that its dome had to be removed. Attached to the northern face of the cliff like a big golden barnacle, the church’s exterior is all clean lines and understated elegance, but the interior couldn’t resist the temptation to adorn itself with sparkling chandeliers and other bits of gilded Rococo extravagance. 

The paintings and frescoes were very fine and featured the usual bizarre subject matter that Catholics around the world have become accustomed to seeing: sleepy-looking saints floating in clouds, men with blasé expressions holding decapitated heads on platters, and so on. Gay icon St. Sebastian (neither your type nor mine in this case, I’m afraid) seemed completely unphased by the nine arrows piercing his athletic, semi-nude body. 

Something about looking at art makes me feel more affectionate than usual, and Ali resembled a dark angel in her black slip dress with its thin line of crystals running down the straps and neckline. When she stood beneath a chandelier, the crystals created tiny prismatic beams that danced around her chest, shoulders, and neck, and she took my breath away. I embraced her, and we swayed back and forth in the center aisle, lost in a silent waltz.

I wanted her all to myself at La Chèvre d'Or, and I convinced the maître d' to seat us on the stunning outdoor patio rather than inside with everyone else. Funny what the right suit and seven Grammys can do. We dined by candlelight and watched yachts float around the bottomless blue bay. A pale half moon was perched atop a sky full of stars. Early on, I kissed her hand and simply said, “Thank you, Ali,” because I don’t think I can ever thank this woman enough, obviously. 

She winked and said in a sultry voice, “Darling, when you get home next week, you’re seeing an eye doctor. I’ve already made an appointment for you, and you are not getting out of it.”

My wicker chair gave a satisfying crackle when I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Turns me on so much when you tell me what to do, love.”

She chuckled, took my hand, and said, “Your eyes are precious to me. We need to get them looked at before-- _it_ \--starts up again. The circus and the flashbulbs and all the rest of it. I hate to think of you in pain.”

 _And of course we know how this turned out, don’t we? Congratulations, Bono, it’s glaucoma! Hahahaha_ fuck. _Now I_ have _to wear sunglasses for the rest of my goddamn life. It could be worse, I suppose. As god is my witness, Reg, they will be the coolest, sexiest things money can buy. And now, back to our story._

I was feeding her bites of a chocolate dessert that defied description. “Are you happy, love?”

“Very. And you. It’s good to see you so at peace.”

I sighed and looked down at the distant lights of our villa. “I think I know why. It’s one of those rare occasions where I’m not missing anyone. Except for the constant, of course. But the most important people in my life are all under one roof.”

“Except for Adam and Larry.”

“Well, of course. They have an open invitation. But you know what I mean. With you and Edge here with me, I feel whole.”

“We both love you very much.” Her expression was extraordinary, more beatific than any saint in that church.

“Thank you, Ali. Thank you a thousand times.”

I’ve spent twenty years with this woman, Edge. More than half my life. The longevity of our relationship is so rare. She is at once every woman in the world but like no one else I know. Her body is utterly familiar to me by now, and I’ve been privileged to witness the miracle of pregnancy and birth transform it into something so soft yet so strong. You and I are together because of her grace and love for both of us, Edge, and I will never forget that.

The next morning I noticed Ali leaning against a railing and peering down into the garden at what seemed like nothing at all. The hem of her favorite travel dress undulated in the breeze. I kissed her neck, warm from the sun. “What’s down there?”

“Doves, sunbathing” she whispered. I looked closer and saw a couple of doves on the ground, sunning themselves while being perfectly camouflaged by some dead leaves. They preened and spread their damp wings to air them out.

“How long have you been watching them?”

“I don't know. Ten minutes? Twenty? It’s a nice way to meditate.” We observed them for a bit, and after a while it became kind of boring, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off them. If they decided to fly, I wanted to be there for it. “They mate for life,” she said. I wondered if another pair of doves were nearby, and if the males had a special relationship. I smiled and put my arm around her. “We had a couple at home. They stayed for a few years,” she continued. “Jordan and I watched them make a nest by the nursery window each spring, and the female did most of the work.”

“Obviously.”

“I liked to listen to them coo as I rocked Eve to sleep.”

The doves’ wings made a whistling sound as they took off and disappeared into the trees. “I don’t remember our doves.”

“You were on tour those years.”

“Oh. Ali. I’m sorry.” I shook my head. I have missed so many things.

“No. Oh no, Bono, it’s fine. Don’t--” There was that brave, capable smile of hers--she was concerned that she had somehow hurt my feelings. I kissed her. My rare dove.

We went inside and joined you and the girls at the dining room table. They were discussing which school supplies smelled the best (the obvious answer was, of course, a new box of crayons, but you seemed to think erasers were better, and this made me wonder if our relationship was doomed, because why, Edge?). Morleigh was putting things in the refrigerator. She had very kindly visited the market and picked up enough food to last the two of us for another week, although she neglected to buy those little crackers I like--no, I _need_ \--so I ended up getting them myself the next day. Along with some candy. And plenty of alcohol. 

Eventually the sound of bags unzipping and zipping began to echo throughout the house, and you and Morleigh disappeared for a little while, and the girls were instructed to check every room to make sure they had all their toys and books and shells, and Ali gazed at the sea as if she could somehow store it up and take it with her. Eve stuck a drawing of you and me on the refrigerator at Eve-height and kissed it goodbye. A car pulled up, our darlings were hugged and kissed, and just like that, they were gone, and the house was very still.

“Weird to be the ones left behind, isn’t it?” you asked.

“It’s usually us doing the leaving.”

Knowing you would need a little quiet time, I led you to a couch. I could smell hints of Morleigh--tuberose, sunscreen--on your skin. Our mouths reconnected, and in that blissful first kiss, my mind involuntarily catalogued the ways you were different from Ali: the bristles of your mustache, the more aggressive tongue, the different angle of your jaw, the wiry arms pulling me hard against that chest of yours, the low hum of pleasure, the warm exhale of “baby” near my ear.

“Exhausted, love?” 

“A little.” 

I opened a window. “Why don’t you take a nap? Let the waves sing you to sleep. I need to sort out some thoughts, anyway.” Feeling incredibly useful, I went into the bedrooms and collected sheets and pillowcases. As I did this, whatever prehistoric and vestigial scent receptors that remained inside me picked up on our beloved girls once again, and I felt kind of sad as I put their sheets in the washing machine. I grabbed a pen and my notebook and sat on the couch near your feet. You were already asleep. A delicate and not unpleasant late-summer melancholy settled over us.

During the predawn hours that morning, I’d had some ideas for possible lyrics about Ali for that slow ballad, and maybe some for another song, too, and I wanted to jot them down before they disappeared into the ether. I gave up on trying to describe her dress accurately and decided to simply call it velvet. If you were the sun, she was the moon. And then you and Morleigh were going to have a baby...I had a lot of new material to work with. Pleased to be so productive right out of the box, I scrawled a few other ideas across the page and impulsively started drawing your sleeping face when your eyes opened and you smiled at me. “Good stuff, B?”

“We’ll see. Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” You felt around for the remote control on the table behind your head and turned on the television to cable news. “Just wanna make sure the planet’s not on the verge of collapse," you said with a grin. We had spent two weeks without any real updates from the outside world, but apparently the only major thing we missed was that Prince Charles and Princess Diana were divorcing. You switched over to weather--a possible wind storm was headed our way in about a week--and turned it off. 

Rising from the couch and holding up a “one second” finger, you walked out to the kitchen and made a phone call to our pool people regarding end-of-summer shutdown procedures. I’m glad I am with people who think about such things. If (heaven forbid) you and Ali should die before me, the everyday details of my world such as garbage collection and automobile maintenance will quickly fall by the wayside. I’ll be too devastated to care very much, of course, but I shudder to think about suddenly becoming responsible for all the things other people currently take care of for me.

I got up and poured some spiked lemonade for us, thinking, _At least I can do this,_ and I took the glasses out to a shady bench in the garden. You joined me, happily accepted your drink, and sat close beside me. You took my hand and examined the skin of my wrist and inner arm. Your index finger traced an artery running between my elbow and my left hand. I thought about the hard work my heart has done and will continue to do for the rest of my life. It beats away relentlessly inside my chest, and I don’t even have to think about it. But, like you and Ali, it is always there with me, giving me what I need and keeping me alive.

“What do you think we’ll be doing this time next year?” you asked.

“Let’s see.” I put my head on your shoulder. “Well, I _think_ we’re supposed to have a little break in the tour next August…? I’m not sure. But let’s say we do. We’ll be here celebrating the first two legs of our sold-out tour, our blockbuster album, and within the next month or two we’re gonna write the song of next summer. Also, you will become the father of a sweet little baby. In conclusion: good times.” 

Upon hearing my voice, Peach Boy crept out from behind a rose bush, trotted over to us, and hopped onto the bench. In an act of extreme charity, he arranged himself so he occupied both of our laps. His back feet rested on your thighs, and he turned his head and gazed at you expectantly. You scratched his lower back, and he automatically lifted it to meet your hand. This must be a cat law because they all do that, but what can I say, Reg? You have a way of making handsome boys raise their hips for you. 

“Sounds like what we were doing in 1987,” you said, remembering our first stadium tour. “We’ve come so far musically in ten years. We’re much more confident.”

“Well, we need to be fearless.”

 _We_ are _moving the right direction, aren’t we, Edge? I mean, it’s too late to turn around now--too many unbreakable contracts have been signed and too many people are depending on us. But we are, aren’t we? Of course we are. We have to be._

A flock of migrating birds flew overhead in a V-formation, and a popcorn-shaped cloud was developing on the horizon--rare for this area. “You’ll finish those lyrics, love. I'll help you. The songs will come together. They always do,” you said. “They’ve been growing inside us, like that cloud over there. Bigger and bigger until...thunder.”

“I hope so.”

“They will. Have faith in us.”

“Yes.”

You always know what to say to me. We were quiet as we thought about the future, and then I said, “You know, I wonder how old this little guy is. What if he dies between now and the next time we’re here?”

You stroked his fur. “I suppose we should treat every time he graces us with his presence as a very special occasion.”

This was not good enough for me. Worried, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and looked at Peach Boy’s tag. I dialed his owners’ phone number, and they picked up after a few rings. “Bonjour?...Je suis votre voisin...Quel âge a Garçon de Pêche?...Trois?...Très bon. Je l'aime...Il est adorable...Merci beaucoup!” I hung up and smiled at you. “I said I was their neighbor, and I asked them how old he is, and they said he was three, and I said he’s adorable and I love him. So he’s still just a wee lad. Mystery solved.” 

You shook your head. “You’re the fucking best, B.”

I gently scratched our boy behind his ears. “This is always the silkiest spot on any animal, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s got to be.”

I kissed and licked behind your earlobe and whispered, “It checks out here, too.”

Peach Boy saw where this was headed and bid us a curt adieu. “We’ve been together for almost five years now, B.” You put your arm around my shoulders.

“And yet it’s still so hot. It’s not even slowing down, is it?” Your lips were testing my behind-the-ear hypothesis.

“It’s remarkable.” We kissed, and I felt like I was being reclaimed by you. 

“I think I know why,” I said. “There’s a sort of long-distance aspect to it. I can’t always be with you, so that makes me want you more. It's the same thing with Ali.” 

“Baby always wants what he can’t have.” Your hands…god, the things you do to me.

“It’s also like eating something sweet, and then craving something salty. And then that makes you want something sweet again.”

“Okay.”

“Or maybe that’s just my snacking strategy.”

You smiled, and I touched the little wrinkles near your eyes. “No, it makes total sense.”

“I mean, Ali and I got together when we were essentially children, completely innocent, but you and I became lovers when we were adults. That might explain it. Or maybe it’s because what we are doing is still considered taboo by some, but…mmm, yes.”

“Go on.” 

It’s hard to go on when your hands are under my shirt, Edge. “With her I feel wholesome and pure and right. With you I feel more experimental and maybe...sexier?”

“Baby.”

“Or sluttier? Does that make any kind of sense?”

“Yeah.”

“You bring me to my knees.”

“I love my darling slut.”

“Edge.”

Within about fifteen minutes, the smooth transfer of power from the Ali administration to the Edge administration was complete. When we weren’t busy hammering out one specific domestic policy again and again, and when I wasn’t making jokes about inaugural balls, you and I spent a surprisingly productive songwriting (as opposed to “songwriting”) week together. The acoustics of the white room were rather impressive, and we played and sang to the smattering of boats on the sea below us. We stayed focused on the work and each other, and without the distractions of home and studio to sidetrack us, we managed to fill gaps in verses and choruses that had bedeviled us for months. I was proud of us. 

_We’ll have to return to Èze when we encounter problems on the next album, although I can’t begin to fathom what that one will sound like or when we’ll even start it, can you? Just thinking about the upcoming year and a half boggles my mind._

As the week progressed, the wind started to pick up, and the dust it produced created some incredible sunsets and sunrises. But after a few days, we remained indoors the majority of the time, and the even the most hardcore tourists didn’t stay at the beach very long. On our last afternoon there, you and I decided to celebrate our songwriting success. Casually dressed, we lounged on the couch and became comfortably wasted on pastis. We were feeding each other what was left in the refrigerator when you looked at me with a twinkle in your eye.

“Somebody’s got an idea.”

“That suit you wore last week with Ali--is it still here?”

“I assume so.”

“Put in on.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I knew you liked it.”

“During the ten seconds I saw you in it, yes.”

“Poor Edge. You deserve some time with my suit, too.”

“So put it on.”

I did what I was told and bowed theatrically when you whistled at me upon my return. “I don’t even wanna ask,” you said.

“Confidentially, Edge? Low five figures.”

“Holy shit. Turn around.” I moved to stand right in front of you and turned. You rubbed a bit of the fabric between your thumb and index finger. “Completely worth it. You look very handsome.” 

I smiled over my shoulder at you. “So what do we do now?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you take that tray out to the kitchen and come back?”

“Whatever you say.” I kissed your forehead and took care of your little task. I returned and unbuttoned the jacket to show you its violet silk lining.

“Sexy.” You stood, moved your hands over my shirt, and admired my tie, which was a purple so dark it was almost black. 

“Ali _will_ kill me if anything happens to this suit. Kill us. Just so you know.”

“She’d be completely justified in doing so.” You went to the coat closet near the kitchen door and found a few hangers. “Follow me.”

After opening the door to the white room, you turned on the ceiling fan. The sky outside was somewhat dingy, and dull clouds scudded towards the sea. The hangers clacked against the table, and you sat down. “Are you alright to have sex?”

It was nice of you to ask because that’s not always the case. But I was, and I nodded.

“Good.” I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I left them at my sides and stared at you. Your eyes traveled slowly up and down my body. “Take off your tie. I want you on top tonight.”

A rare position for us; I was intrigued. “Excellent idea, Edge.” You placed the tie on the table.

“I want to watch you. Jacket.”

“Oh. Jacket, of course.” It seemed like it was designed to slip off my body and into the hands of my lover. You placed it on a hanger and hooked it to the back of a chair.

“Turn around.”

“Yes, Edge.”

“Those shoulders. Let me see them.” So many tight buttons on that gorgeous white shirt...I struggled with a couple of them, but I’m sure you appreciated that in some strange way. I had tucked it in, so I let it dangle from my waist. You pulled it off me and hung it up. “Turn back to me,” you whispered. “Very good.”

I leaned down, touched your jaw, and kissed you. Your hand slid up my leg and held me firmly. “You'll need to take off these pants soon. I'd hate to stretch this lovely fabric.” Ten long fingers got rid of everything else I was wearing, and very soon I was standing naked before you but feeling oddly powerful. I placed my hand on the back of your neck and pulled you up from your chair, and once you were standing, I went straight for your throat. “Get the fuck out of those clothes, Edge.”

You didn’t bother to fold them.

The light in the room was the color of our skin, and I threw the sheet over us. I took my time with you, didn’t I? Every part of you was vying for my attention, and, ravenous, I wanted to please them all at once. Your hands were in my hair, and I said, “You love it. I know you do.” Your eyes were alive and greener than usual, and when I said that, your eyelids lowered partially, and your eyes rolled back as if you were dreaming, and for a couple of seconds all I could see were two slivers of white. Gratifying little shudder.

Your ever-pale right arm slid up to rest across the other pillow, my pillow. I grabbed your wrist and leaned over to sink my teeth into the vulnerable skin of your inner elbow, and I marveled at how feminine that little area felt under my lips and tongue. Then I worked my way up to the swell of a bicep, a shoulder, a collarbone, and back to a place that was electrifyingly male. I was still holding your wrist. That genius arm of yours belonged to me.

“Angel,” you sighed as I straddled you on the bed and gradually took you inside my body. Your hands were on my straining thighs, and if that made me an angel, you were St. Edge in ecstasy with that adoring face of yours looking up at me, gasping. We found a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hand traced the line of hair running down my stomach. “Softest thing in the world,” you murmured. 

"The hardest thing in the world would like a moment of your time." You were more than happy to oblige. “Jesus Christ, why don’t we do it this way more?” I panted, barely able to keep it together because the combination of your hands and your cock and your face and me in control of everything…

“Fuck me,” you whispered, and hearing you say that shook me to my core, I swear to god, Edge, and you came with me. 

_Do you remember saying that? Because I certainly do. Maybe you’ve forgotten it, or maybe it was just something people say during sex that doesn’t mean anything more than “oh my god.” But I heard it and I’m afraid I can’t un-hear it, love._

I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want our divine connection to fade in even the slightest way. Afterward, we held each other quietly, each of us lost in thought. “Feels like the night before the first day of school,” I said after a while, breaking the silence. We spent the rest of the evening talking about the coming weeks and months, but for the most part we simply touched and looked at each other and kissed.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of wind rattling our windows. It was much stronger than the day before. Naked, you were up and watching the trees bend and writhe and the white caps blooming on the waves, and I stood beside you and took your hand. “I love you.”

You kissed my cheek. “It’s started,” you said.


	6. White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after Fetish, so if it seems like an interesting new development has happened with these two, well, it has, and you can read all about it in that 100K mofo. If you don't want to do that, I think this will mostly make sense in any case.
> 
> I am a maniac when it comes to timeline accuracy. I had to guess about a few things in the second half of this chapter. Information is vague and occasionally contradictory, so I did what I could with it. And ultimately it doesn't really matter.
> 
> Several scenes here happened to me in real life: the bus, the radar-watching, the parking garage, and W.W. (I'm fine. And I love you for reading this. Thank you.)
> 
> This one gets a bit...rough. And not in the fun way.

_I am so tired, B._

_I know you are, too. We’ve been home for a couple of weeks now, and that doesn’t seem remotely plausible, does it? Life has slowed down so abruptly I feel like we’ve created a rip in the space-time continuum. Now that the initial euphoria of Popmart’s end has worn off and the subsequent depression of_ Well, what do we do now? _has faded into _Ahh, to hell with it_ , I find myself merely going through the motions. When I talked with you on the phone yesterday (I guess that technically was yesterday), you seemed low. You did your best to cover it, but you should know by now I can always tell. The smile had faded from your voice, and you said my name only three times._

 _Without the nonstop distractions of the past difficult year, I’m sure your mind has had plenty of time to dwell on...it._ W.W. _Your worries are mine, love, and I don’t think I need to tell you that I’ve spent quite a bit of time researching this. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but if it starts to get to you during some mean, quiet moment, please understand that I am undoubtedly thinking about you, I’m probably awake, and you can always call me. You are not alone in this._

 _Would you like to come over tonight and see the baby? No big deal, just some low-key family time. Sian is so chubby and jolly now. Mum says her eyes are just like mine when I was that age, so if you’ve ever been curious about what a baby Edge might have looked like, here’s your chance. And Morleigh would love to see you. Her parents and sisters have taken turns staying with her and helping with Sian while I was away (we are currently between sisters). My job is to show them places in Dublin they’ve wanted to see and otherwise entertain them during downtime...which is fine, and we’re thankful for their generosity. But I can tell Morleigh is desperate to talk about something,_ anything _other than The Baby, and you both always have so much fun comparing notes on my numerous idiosyncrasies and god knows whatever else the two of you discuss._

_And then later, if you want to, maybe you and I could go downstairs to that little room off my home studio and do things that might take your mind off…look at me. I’m writing several hundred words to request what you’re able to make happen with a simple “Edge...c’mere.”_

_I am distracted at least once an hour by things that remind me of you. The other day while running an errand, I noticed my hand was fondling the car’s parking brake. Its shape and size are, shall we say, comparable. I miss your cock, baby. I miss you. God, I miss you._

_Bono...c’mere._

_E._

\-----

“First chance we get, Edge.”

You meant what you said back in May, didn’t you? One of your most endearing traits is your single-minded compulsion to make my dreams real. I told you about a recurring vision of mine--sex in the white room with you on top--and you were (unsurprisingly) all about it. You checked our calendar, and you saw that the first chance would be in the middle of July during a short break between the American and European legs of the tour. Even though we received the mildest of eyerolls and the _whatever_ -est of shrugs from our friends and family, you made certain that you and I would be able to get away for a couple of days of sex and nothingness in the south of France.

“Are you sure, B? We’ll be together again soon enough, and--”

“You want it and so do I. We’ve just begun to explore this. We won’t get to spend any time in Èze this year otherwise. And christ, look at us, Edge. I know for a fact that I won’t stay this way forever. I say we seize these two fucking days of our precious lives and have some uninterrupted sex in our goddamn villa, okay?”

Case closed.

We arrived separately. Morleigh had an appointment that morning. “I should probably be around for at least one or two of them,” I said sheepishly, and she made sure to lay it on as thickly as possible with her doctor.

“Here’s the man I’ve told you so much about! His name is the Edge, and yes, a name like that is an actual thing. He dresses up like a cowboy and spends most of his time with a little band he’s been in ever since he was a teenager.” And so on. Oh they had a good time with me.

The airport at Nice and the road to Èze were oddly congested, even for the tourist season, and my driver followed a truck hauling heavy machinery the entire trip. They were gigantic wheels designed for some even bigger mystery machine, and they made me think about the endless swath of traditionally masculine professions about which I know nothing.

We were there on a Monday and Tuesday, so while our time together wasn’t technically a weekend, who can really say what counts as a weekend during a tour year? As the car approached the blindingly sunny beaches of Èze, memories of the previous summers came rushing back to me, and I felt the tension of the tour begin to slip away. Hard to believe it had been almost a year since we were last there. Knowing we would be absent for a long time, we had hired a property manager at the end of last summer. He looked after the villa while we were away, so no awful surprises greeted us upon our arrival.

Instead a certain chubby orange cat head-butted the back of my leg and nearly derailed me as I rang the doorbell. I don’t know why I felt the need to do that. It sounded like you were listening to _The Hounds of Love._ Sucking on a red popsicle, you opened the door with a manic smile that made me know you had been preparing something and couldn’t wait to show it off. “Get in here, you gorgeous man,” you said, tossing my bag on a bench. You walked backwards, paused to give me cold, cherry-flavored kisses every few steps, and led me to the kitchen, where you had amassed a collection of your four preferred food groups: sugar, salty, carbs, and alcohol. “I’ve taken care of everything, you see. We won’t have to leave the house if we don’t want to.”

“Darling boy,” I said, my lips at your neck. I was glad I had dropped a few protein bars into my bag that morning.

“ _And if I only could, I'd make a deal with God, and I'd get him to swap our places. Be running up that road, be running up that hill, be running up that building_ ,” you sang, your low voice in perfect contrast to Kate’s soprano.

I chuckled and ran my hand up the back of your neck. “Looks like your deal’s gonna come through.”

“Likewise, Edge.” I took in our home’s general loveliness while you abandoned your popsicle and poured us a couple of drinks. “Felt so guilty leaving the place alone all year,” you said. “She must be in shock now that we’re back inside her.” Lewd little grin.

“Let’s give her some things to think about.”

“Cheers to that,” you murmured, clinking your glass with mine. We moved through the living room--well, the main one--and looked out at the sea. The sun bounced off it and dappled light danced on our skin.

The whiskey felt blushingly warm as it sank down my throat. “That burn always makes me feel like I’m a teenager falling in love.”

“That’s the real reason why people become alcoholics.” Your fingers played with mine.

The previous two months had been a colorful, erotic dream dominated by challenging live performances and ecstatic sex. The band gained confidence as we tackled America’s larger cities and mostly-filled stadiums, and you and I enjoyed the novelty of establishing a new sexual groove. It was exhilaratingly unfamiliar, and we were giddy with love.

I felt like that little French boy from the story that had captivated me when I was a child. He was playing with his dog near his home when he discovered an underground cavern covered with beautiful paintings of prehistoric beasts. This incredible secret had been biding its time under his feet for his entire life, but that day it made itself known to him. It was the same with us. We were discovering something wonderful together, it belonged solely to you and me, and it had been waiting. _”Look at this, Edge! Have you ever seen anything so extraordinary?”_

“What are you thinking about?”

“Prehistoric cave paintings.”

“I fucking love you.”

Grinning at each other as we lifted opposite sides of the bed, we moved it closer to the mirrors that afternoon (“You told me you were watching us from outside your body, Edge, remember?”).

"Oh, there’s that book,” you said, noticing a biography of Picasso you must have left under the bed last summer.

The room was so bright I felt like our bodies might fade under the glare, like those unfortunate video boxes exposed to direct sunlight at that rental place I like to visit. Soon all the yellow would disappear from our skin, leaving it pink and purple and process blue.

You were staring at me. “You’re not obsessing about Rotterdam, are you?”

“It couldn’t have been further from my mind.”

“Good. Because that’s not allowed. We’re here and it’s now, okay?”

“Exactly.”

“So kindly join me on our bed, then, Reg.”

The sheet billowed over our heads, diffusing the white light somewhat, and there we were face to face beneath it, naked and alive. I touched your face, and you touched mine. Your eyes were all-consuming. Stripped of artifice until the very planes of your skull were visible, the animal magnetism of your body was undeniable. We kissed, and, delirious, my fingers flew to worship your hair. You groaned. Over time my weakness had shifted into a mutually beneficial kink. How could I resist letting you take over, especially when you wanted nothing more than to exploit my fetish and give me pleasure? There’s a certain joy and relief to be had in surrendering to someone so beautiful.

“I’ve been thinking about this for so long,” you said, kissing my neck.

“Tell me.”

A hand tipped my head back. Teeth. You all but growled, “I want the kind of fuck that makes you fear for your soul, a fuck that ruins lives, a fuck that makes kingdoms fall.”

“Baby.”

“And I’m going to get it.” You rolled me over, and I exhaled as your hot mouth claimed the back of my neck.

Whiskey and smoke, fingers and sweat, stubble and scalp, muscle and skin, my god your skin. I relaxed and let you take me where you wanted to go. You moved inside me to the slow rhythm of the waves outside our windows and began the type of interrogation you know I appreciate.

“How much do I turn you on, Edge?”

“All the way.”

“You need a man’s touch. A man’s kiss. Don't you?”

“Your touch. Your kiss.”

“I know you like to watch me fuck you.”

“Yes.”

“Here in the white room.”

“Yes.”

“Finally.”

“Finally.”

“Hips up. Good.”

“Baby.”

“So swollen.”

“Please.”

“Weeping for release.”

“Yes.”

“You know you asked for this a year ago, and now I’m giving it to you. Ask me again.”

“Fuck me.”

“Again.”

“Fuck me.”

And then you, my greedy lover, sped up to double-time and removed the sheet. The dazzling white light hurt my dilated eyes. Once they adjusted, I saw our reflection: your rapturous face, my bitten, smiling lower lip, my hand reaching back to touch your hairline, your tongue at my ear.

“Is this what you imagined, Edge?”

“It's better.”

“Good.”

“It’s so much better.”

“Then come for me.”

I love obeying you, Bono.

Then we lay there on our backs, gazing at the ceiling and gasping. I held your hand as we came down together, feeling the blood slowly recede from our hot, sensitive cocks. Our lungs filled with delicious oxygen and released carbon dioxide, in and out, in and out. Our heartbeats slowed down. Our damp skin began to cool. I realized my toes were clenched and it took me a second before I could figure out how to reanimate them. I didn’t want to move; my body felt like it was floating yet completely immobile.

The beauty of nature has the power to make me feel small and still, and sometimes so do you.

We fell asleep, exhausted by the past few months and finally in the one place where we were safe from interruption and completely at peace. Hours later we were startled awake by what sounded like gunfire. We were still holding hands, and I felt your body jerk into consciousness. Lightning flashes of color burst on our darkened walls. “Edge…?”

“Oh. That’s right.”

“What the fuck?”

“Fireworks.”

You grinned and squeezed my hand, and we went down to the balcony and watched them, wrapped in our sheet. “Pretty cute how you scheduled our trip to coincide with Bastille Day,” I said over the din.

“You should know by now that I am all about romance.”

“You had no idea.”

“None whatsoever.”

I put my arm around your shoulders, cool in the night air, and kissed your cheek. I watched a rocket shoot into the sky, and with it I attached a silent prayer thanking God for your presence in my life. We’ve only been together like this for five years, but really I’ve loved you for twenty years. Some things you just know, and you can deny them all you want, but you never stop knowing.

\-----

_I wrote the rest of this in February, love._

Four more shows to go. We’re in the air somewhere between Sydney and Tokyo. Last month during our break, it was forty degrees colder and winter in Dublin. Suddenly it’s summer. I will never get over this life of ours. As I write, your sleeping head is heavy on my shoulder. It seems heavier than usual, probably because of the weight it’s been carrying around. I just kissed the top of it, and this seemed to please you.

“I need to go back to Èze,” you said over the phone a few weeks ago, and I knew something was off. “Just for a day or two, Edge. Please.”

I held the receiver between my shoulder and cheekbone while jingling my keys at a grinning Sian, who was really beginning to recognize me, it seemed. “In January?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I have something to tell you, though. Something important.” Your voice cracked on _important._ “That room is sacred to me now. I need us to be there. Please.”

I shrugged at Morleigh and silently intimated that something was wrong, and she nodded, alarmed.

“Yes, love. Of course.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

I endured a sleepless night--what could you have meant by that?--and looked out at the otherworldly landscape on my way to the airport. Every surface was covered with the sparkling crushed velvet of a thick white frost, the combination of fog and the kind of penetrating cold I could still feel while I waited for you in first class. When you arrived, you smiled apologetically and said, “You’ve got to admit you’re curious to see it in the winter, right?”

I gave you a hug, and you thanked me. I lifted the armrest between us so we could hold hands under my coat. Yours was colder than mine, and it remained perfectly still. “I love you,” I whispered, stroking your thumb. You nodded and sniffed. We sat together in relative silence and read.

While you were in the restroom in Nice, I purchased a variety of horrifying food items exclusive to airport magazine shops. Honestly, these are the kinds of things that appeal to you the most anyway. Knowing you wanted to wait until we were home to tell me whatever it was, I put my arm around you in the back seat of the car, partition up, and together we looked out the window at winter on the Cote d’Azur. The distant French Alps were magnificently snowy with muted, dormant vegetation at the lower elevations. The sea was still blue, but it carried a leaden quality that made it look more frigid than it probably was.

Your troubled face was nevertheless achingly handsome, and you looked dashing in your black peacoat. I arranged its collar so it stood up a bit, and you rolled your eyes at me affectionately. “Thanks again for doing this,” you said softly.

“Of course.”

When we arrived at home--and I’m happy we’re calling it home now, aren’t you?--I unlocked the door while you called out, “Garçon! Peach Boy!” a few times. He didn’t appear.

“I’m sure he’s tucked away somewhere cozy and warm,” I said, pulling you indoors. “When he heard your voice, his ears perked up, and I’ll bet he’s looking out his window for you.”

“I hope so.” You shivered. “Cold in here.”

I imagined the villa was reacting to us as though we had walked in on her while she was undressed. Our voices bounced off the walls, and I didn’t remember those floorboards creaking before. I turned up the thermostat and heard the distant furnace lurch into action. Soon our nostrils were greeted with the disagreeable scent of hot dust, the harbinger of the first day of the heating season. Meanwhile you started collecting blankets, and then, along with our bags, we took them up to our chilly white room. The overcast sky matched the walls.

I unzipped my bag and took off my shoes. I regretted this as my feet’s temperature instantly fell in line with that of the floor. You layered the blankets over the bed’s stale white sheets, shrugged off your coat and boots, and got under them. I joined you and figured you would have little to say if I warmed my feet on yours.

Shivering, we turned to each other, and I caressed your face. “Sweetheart.”

You exhaled and smiled at me. “You goddamn hero.”

“Get in here.” I put my arm around you, and you rested your head on my chest. Our bodies began to warm. Your finger traced the geometric design on my t-shirt. A sigh. You looked up at me, turned onto your back, and took a deep breath.

“One time when Ali and I were nineteen or twenty, we were riding somewhere on a city bus, just sitting there holding hands and being in love. And this old man got on, and as he was moving to an empty seat, he stopped right in front of us. He had a serious expression on his face, and he looked at both of us and said, ‘Enjoy your beauty.’ We didn’t know how to react to that. I think Ali might’ve said ‘thank you,’ and he walked to the back of the bus.”

“‘Enjoy your beauty.’”

“It was so unexpected that I’ve never forgotten it.” You shrugged. “Well, that’s all I wanted to tell you, Edge. Thanks a lot for coming, drive safely.” I pretended to throttle you and we both laughed for a while before settling back down. You looked at me. “I can feel things starting to change.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never really given my own mortality a lot of thought. Some thought, of course, because of Mum, but not a lot. But I’m nearly 38 years old now, Edge, and I find myself doing math. Do you? 38 plus 38 equals 76. I’m at midlife, _if I’m lucky._ ”

“If you’re lucky.”

You looked out the window at the empty sky. “And I just fucking miss Michael,” you said sadly. I could see a tear being born in the corner of your eye, and your mouth was a tight line.

“I do too, baby.” I took your hand.

You swallowed. “The last time we were on a break, I saw a specialist. By myself. Ali doesn’t know.”

It took me a second to process this. “Your voice?”

You nodded. “My voice. You know better than anyone else how I’ve been struggling with it this year. They wanted to do some non-invasive tests.”

“I wish you would have told me. You shouldn’t have to carry this burden all by yourself, love. Why didn’t you tell me? And Ali?”

“Because telling you would have made it seem more horrifyingly _real._ And I didn’t want to trouble either of you unnecessarily if it turned out to be nothing. But...my doctor thinks it could be something.”

“B.” I kissed your worried forehead, my mind reeling. I kissed it again. “Talk to me.”

“The tests were nothing too stressful, really. It’s everything else surrounding the tests, you know? I was sitting there in this waiting room before I got called in, and I think it was actually some staff lounge they had cleared out especially for me because, well, you know.”

“Sure. Nice of them.”

“Little kitchenette painted that weird seafoam green you see in older hospitals sometimes. Warring coffee and disinfectant smells. A massacred birthday cake was in the middle of a table with plastic forks and paper plates. I was sitting at the table watching a television mounted up by the ceiling. Local weather with the radar on a loop...a pretty big storm was headed for western Ireland, but the last frame of the loop suggested it was dissipating. Accompanied by insipid music. I stared at it blankly. Numb and mildly hypnotized. I thought of you, of course.”

“My love.”

“So they called me in, did the tests, and I tried my best to make the nurse and doctor laugh with some gallows humor. Then it was back into that room for a while. A half hour? Something. I should have brought a book. Ugly fluorescent lights overhead. A toilet flushing somewhere. People talking in the hall. Phones ringing. The radar loop had added a couple of frames while I was gone. The storm was smaller and shaped like a knife. Then they called me back in.”

You moved closer to me and put your head on my chest again. Shape-tracing. Your body was becoming increasingly warm as you relived this frightening experience, and you were talking a bit faster than usual.

“My doctor--who was very kind; they were all just heartbreakingly kind to me--told me that the purpose of the tests was to establish a baseline, and they would check me again in the spring to see if anything had changed.” Another deep breath. “He said there was cause for ‘mild’ concern. It might clear itself up over time, or it might be a couple of other treatable things I can't remember, or it might be cancer.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And he said I really shouldn’t worry--can you even believe that? If it was anything bad, we were in the extremely early stages. And what we were going to do in the meantime was something he called ‘watchful waiting.’ Watchful waiting. Fuck, Edge.”

“Bono.”

“So he sent me on my merry way, and I staggered back to my car in that labyrinth of a parking garage. God, I fucking hate parking garages.”

I had tears in my eyes. “The worst.”

“Doesn’t it seem incredibly unfair to make patients navigate those things after receiving a distressing diagnosis? Watchful waiting. I sat behind the steering wheel, hung my head, and wept.”

“My love.”

We made mournful eye contact--your expression was indescribable--and held each other. You had been carrying that around for more than two months, while we were back touring the states again. I racked my brain for signs I may have missed, but those days were so manic it would have been hard to notice. Your lows could be attributed to anything from empty seats to Michael’s shocking death. Your performances were more emotionally vulnerable than ever, but you’re an extraordinary artist who always hits me right in the heart. And then when we were alone, you were on fire for me...or was that merely an opportunity for you to escape into sexual oblivion and simply not think about cancer for a while?

I stroked your hair. “I feel bad that I didn’t pick up on it somehow.”

“How could you have known? I’m an excellent liar.”

“Not to me.”

“I wanted to spare you.” You kissed my neck tenderly...a neck I would gladly trade with yours if I could.

“Please don’t ever spare me again. I love you too much.”

“Okay.” I kissed the top of your head. I felt a smile spread against my heart. “Seattle and Vancouver,” you said. I chuckled knowingly. “You weren’t nuts about the shaved head.”

“I guess I should have been, but, oddly, no.”

“Neither was I. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, ‘Well, this is what chemo is going to be like.’”

I stopped breathing. “Oh fuck, B.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“I wish I could take this burden from you. I wish we could change places.”

“Never, Edge.” Our eyes locked. “Never,” you whispered.

“Well, we’re sharing it now. I am by your side.”

“My right hand man.”

I looked around the room and at the sky. You and I were two spots of color on a blank canvas. “I really hope it’s nothing, but we can get through this, whatever it ends up being. I’ll learn as much as I can and help you with anything you need. You know I will.”

You exhaled, and I could feel you relax a bit. “Just talking about it is making me feel a little better.”

“Of course it is.” I held you in a tight embrace, and we were quiet for a moment. “You’re tougher than I am, you know.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Edge.”

“No, I’m the fragile one. I’ve led a pretty charmed life. Good parents, easy childhood, I get to do what I love, beautiful children, two people I adore. I haven’t been tested the way you have, and that’s probably why the divorce hit me as hard as it did. That’s nothing like losing your mother when you’re a child.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I mean...”

“No, really, I don’t know what the extent of my own endurance is, but I think you know yours. One day I will be tested, I’m sure of it, and I hope I’ll be able to rise to that challenge. But this isn’t the first time the world has taken you by the throat.”

“Literally.”

“Sorry. That just came out.”

“No, I like it. That’s what is happening.”

“Well, what I’m trying to say is I’m here. It is my privilege to be here.”

“I’m so grateful for you.” You kissed my heart, and your hand moved under my shirt to touch my chest. You paused, nodded, and looked up into my eyes. “Alright. I’m sorry. I really hate to ask you to go along with this, but we are telling no one about this right now, okay? I just can’t do it to Ali, especially not while we’re gone. She already deals with so much on her own.”

“I can’t say I agree with you, but--”

“If it turns into something, I will tell her.”

I caressed your dear face. “Okay.”

“But from now on and into the future, the party line is this: you don’t know either. I didn’t tell you. I don’t want her to know about this...imbalance. I don’t want her to know I told you first. If I get asked about this later on, neither of you knew about it, okay? Please.”

I thought about it. “As long as you promise to tell her if it gets bad. And Adam, Larry, and Paul.”

“I promise. I just...needed to tell you. I need your mind working on this.”

“You can trust me.”

“I trust you with my life.”

“I do too, B.” You moved up so we were facing each other. “You know, there is one thing I don’t like about...the four of us.”

Your thumb drew a slow line along my cheekbone. “What’s that?”

“I can’t say certain things to you out of respect for Ali and Morleigh.”

You looked confused. “Things like…”

I kissed you. “I love you more than anyone.”

You were visibly moved. “Oh Edge.”

“You know? There are always little qualifiers I have to add, little edits I have to make. I do it with Morleigh as well out of respect for you.”

You blinked. “You can tell her anything you want, love. You should. Don’t worry about me. Morleigh is a queen. I’m sure she would feel the same way.”

“I don’t know. But you get what I mean, don’t you? I want to say things to you that are absolutes. It doesn’t feel right to say ‘I love you more than anyone’ because it always comes with an asterisk that says ‘except for her; we have a special arrangement.’”

You smiled conspiratorially. “Well, as long as we are being bad and keeping secrets...I think when we’re alone we should just say _Fuck the asterisks._ Okay, that sounds hilarious.”

“Terrible.”

“But, you know, fuck them! I love you more than anyone, Edge. I love Ali more than anyone, too. The two ideas can coexist. Fuck it! So, please, I want you to feel like you can say it.” You had tears in your eyes.

“I love you more than anyone, Bono.”

“I love you more than anyone, too, Edge. Doesn’t that feel good?”

“Yes.”

“I belong to you.”

“I belong to you.”

I moved down and kissed your neck repeatedly. Home of your voice. So many people treasure and need it. It is a comfort to so many. It is a gift to the world. _You_ are a gift to the world. Each kiss was a prayer to God asking him to spare you.

I love you more than anyone.


	7. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter skips ahead about six months to October 1998, which is not long after they filmed the "Sweetest Thing" video, to give you some idea of what these two were looking like at the time. Which is to say, devastatingly handsome. <3
> 
> In his email, Bono briefly refers to the August 15 Omagh bombing that killed 29 people, and that "poor boy in Wyoming" is Matthew Shepard, who was the victim of a brutal hate crime on October 6.
> 
> The bulk of this chapter is about Bono's biopsy, which happened sometime during the fall, and for the story's sake, I'm putting it at the beginning of October. Also for the sake of the story, I made him wait a few hours before he received the results of this biopsy. According to his own account in U2 by U2, Bono's doctor told him the results just as he was waking up from the anesthesia (how can that be??). I went through a similar procedure a few years ago, but I had to wait almost two torturous weeks before I learned that my lesions were benign. Obviously I am not a VIP like some people. So to give the chapter a tiny bit of drama, I decided to let B dangle for half a day while the lab double-checked his doctor's initial results. I asked beloved readers PJ and Shannon to see if that would be an okay thing to do, and they gave me the green light. Thank you both!
> 
> Cancer angst aside, this chapter has many examples of a protective Edge being sweet to a needy Bono, along with some ATYCLB foreshadowing, and I hope you love it. Thanks as always for reading.

_Edge, Edge, Edge._

_This fucking year. My rage over Omagh had just--_ just! _\--shifted from a furious boil to an exasperated simmer, and now..._

_That poor boy in Wyoming. Jesus Christ._

_So it's official: I’m having a crisis of faith in both God and humanity. Right now you, Ali, and our little cluster of friends and family are the only things keeping me on the positive side of that line. Mostly you and Ali._

_Fuck. And they never asked us. Not one reporter questioned our relationship last year, even though we gave them a myriad of reasons to do so, and now if they did I don’t know what I’d say anymore. That beautiful monster of a country has opened my eyes. I’m not afraid for myself, but I am afraid for our girls and the army of people who depend on our success to make a living. If I thought for even a moment that our family was in danger, or heaven forbid_ you _were in danger because of us, I wouldn’t want to live anymore, that’s all._

 _Is it presumptuous of us to assume we’d even be accepted as spokespeople for gay rights? Our situation is of course privileged and_ highly unusual _. We’re two married men with children. Is this our fight? Should I focus my energy and aforementioned rage on something else? I don’t know._

_I was pacing all day Friday, and Ali sat me down at my computer and told me to write something, anything. So I wrote this. For you. Because I love you more than anyone, Edge._

_And then there’s my father. I went to visit Bob a couple of days ago. He barely tolerates Norman’s presence, much less mine, even though he’s truly got something to complain about now. But he granted me an audience when I said I had some cancer news of my own. He seemed genuinely concerned when I told him about last week’s biopsy, and as much as I might have liked to describe that day in detail, I cut to the chase pretty quickly and just told him I was okay. He exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and said, “That’s good.”_

_Despite everything, life continues to march on relentlessly, doesn't it? Yesterday it brought a ray of light. Ali and I have a wonderful bit of news, and it’s like the clouds have parted just enough for me to see the evening star, and you are my north star, and Ali is the moon. Edge, we’re expecting another child, and we wanted you to be there when we tell the girls. Would you please come over tonight, if you can, and bring Morleigh and the baby? I need to hold that tiny version of you, and then I need to feel your arms around me._

_B._

\-----

“You’ll need someone to drive you home tomorrow, you know.”

“Dr. Collins. My driving abilities are beyond reproach. Ask anyone.”

“I’m sure they are. But it’s standard policy here. Patients who go under anesthesia must have a driver. Trust me on this.”

“Of course.”

You were going to be with me anyway, gods be praised. We had arranged to spend a long songwriting weekend in Èze. What we neglected to tell everyone was that before we left, we would make a quick stop by the hospital. Once we were there, Dr. Collins would shut me up long enough to remove some troublesome cells from my throat to determine what the hell they were up to in there. Fucking definitely-not-a-nodule bastards. (Please admire my use of scientific jargon throughout, Reg.)

The good doctor was only marginally okay with me traveling so soon after the biopsy. But since I was only going under for a minimal amount of time and the procedure was very much an in-and-out thing, he consented. 

I packed my bag and kissed my beloved wife and daughters goodbye, trying not to become maudlin or visibly nervous in front of them. _You’ll tell them if there’s a problem,_ I reminded my idiot self. I should have told them anyway, and I knew it. You were right, of course. But I continued the charade--yet another unsung, Oscar-worthy performance on my part--and as I walked to your waiting car, I tried to forget that _People die doing this. It absolutely happens. Why not me?_.

I got in the passenger’s seat, and you leaned over and kissed me. Oh Edge, you have the face of an angel. You really do. “Four in one million,” you said. I raised an eyebrow. “That’s the number of patients who die under anesthesia.”

I smiled. “But I’m a one in a million kind of guy, Edge.”

“Oh, you’re special, alright, but not when it comes to this.” You touched my face and regarded me thoughtfully. “How are you?”

“Take your worst stage fright and double it.”

“I’ll be with you the entire time.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, you realize.”

Your eyes were a peaceful green oasis for me on that damp morning, and I wanted to be brave for you. As you steered the car towards the city, I looked at other drivers in other cars who were presumably on their way to work or school, all burdened with their own unknowable worries. I stared straight ahead at the car in front of us--a little black Volkswagen Golf like the one Ali drives. Its rear window was emblazoned with a Donegal Celtic sticker. Their cross-inside-a-circle logo was impossible not to imagine as crosshairs. Despite the stop-and-go traffic, you maintained a consistent distance between us and that car. This made the crosshairs seem hypnotic as the logo appeared to float before my eyes. 

And then the car turned. And then we were spiraling up that Babel Tower of a parking garage. And then we were out of the car, and you were noting that we were on level four, I think, and we were alone in the elevator that would take us down to the hospital proper. You pulled your jacket’s sleeve over your finger and pushed the button with the star next to it. I looked at you, and you gave me a grin. “That’s probably the most germ-ridden button in the city.”

“Always thinking, aren’t you, Edge?”

“Always thinking.”

I was too lost inside my head to really notice, but I’m sure you and I received a few double-takes as our half of U2 walked toward the casual-yet-terrifying-sounding ambulatory surgery center. As a courtesy, Dr. Collins had arranged for me to arrive well before his first appointment of the day. The young receptionist there was shuffling papers. “Checking in,” I said.

“Name?” She didn’t look up.

“That’s a good question, B. Which one do you go by here--”

“Holy fuck!” she said, noticing us and dropping a clipboard.

“Oh, I assure you, I’m not particularly holy, love.”

Eventually you and I were led to one of a series of curtained-off waiting areas where I would be prepped for the biopsy. You sat in a chair beside my bed-recliner, and I was directed to a nearby restroom to change. I could hear you cycling through the channels on our area’s small television and landing on one that played old movies. When I emerged, resplendent in a light blue hospital gown and matching shower cap, you were chuckling at the opening scene to _Oklahoma!_. “Oh what a beautiful morning,” I sang along, sotto voce. Sexxo voce, and this caused you to lose it.

A very sweet nurse cleared her throat and we collected ourselves. “I was delighted when they told me who I’d be working with today, and my goodness, you do not disappoint,” she said, looking us over.

“Neither do you, darlin’,” I said with a wink. And that was about all the charm I could muster up that morning. As she began to test my blood pressure, the reality of my situation came crashing down once again. I looked at you, and you seemed to sense my fear. You turned off the television and put your hand on my shoulder. 

“You’re not alone.”

“Not at all,” the nurse echoed, releasing that tight velcro cuff. I began to breathe again but decided to concentrate on you while she hooked me up to an IV. Have you ever noticed that so many healthcare workers hum as they go about their busy days? Little made-up melodies with no discernible tune? It’s comforting, and I found myself humming along with her and even harmonizing a bit. I hope you were paying attention, Edge, because I think we came up with some good ideas there. I never even caught her name.

My doctor arrived and reviewed the procedure (“you’ll wake up in less than an hour and won’t remember a thing”) and gave you some instructions on the care and feeding of the post-op Bono. He left us alone for a while. I thought about everyone who depends on my voice. I returned to your reassuring face, a face that believes in science and statistics...and me. You had folded my clothes into a neat little pile and held them on your lap. “You look adorable in blue,” you said.

“I’ll have you know I’m absolutely naked under this thing, too.”

“Please don’t tempt me any further.”

“By the way, Edge, if you should ever have to do this, you ought to know you’re not supposed to wear any makeup or moisturizer or things like that.”

“And yet here you are looking fresh as a daisy.” Your eyes crinkled a bit. “You know why they tell you not to do that, don’t you?”

“Why?”

“Because when they put you under, they tape your eyelids shut, and if you have anything on your skin, the tape won’t stick.”

“How positively ghoulish of them.”

You nodded. “Are you hungry?”

“You know I am. I haven’t had anything to eat since last night. Doctor's orders.”

“Well. Later on we’ll get ice cream.”

“Oh, will we?”

“What flavor would you like?”

Important question. “Strawberry.” I could hear people getting organized nearby, and I gave your face one last look.

“I love you, Bono.”

“I love you, Edge.”

Oh, I don’t know why I feel the need to tell you about this again. I guess it’s good to have it written down somewhere. But the experience of being put under was truly fascinating and revelatory. 

I was wheeled into the--and I love this term, Edge-- _operating theater_ , instructed to get up and lie on the padded table, and move my celebrated ass down a bit. Two familiar faces and several new ones sprang into action. One serene attendant engaged me in the smallest of talk, obviously designed to distract me from everything else that was happening.

“Any plans for the weekend?” 

“Edge and I are going to our house in the south of France.” 

“Ooh, how lovely!”

The anesthesiologist stood directly behind my head, and I don’t think he put that thing over my face (again with the impressive medical jargon). He must have simply added the drugs into my IV. I remember feeling sleepy and saying, “I think it’s starting to work.” Soon everything in my field of vision turned black starting from the outside and leading to a central point of light that quickly disappeared. I started to dream, but it was only a half-dream, or maybe even a quarter-dream. I was hoping for some kind of epiphany I could use in a song, but...sorry. If that is what death will be like, I really think there is nothing to fear. And you could do worse than having “I think it’s starting to work” as your last words. That’s upbeat. That’s optimistic. (I can and will do better when the time comes, though. Many, many years from now.)

I came out of it seemingly immediately, although forty minutes had passed, and the first thing I heard was my humming nurse’s voice saying, “They’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen--oh look, he’s waking up.” _She is on to us, Edge._

She came over to me and asked, “What’s your name, love?”

I smiled at her through the lifting fog. “Sweetheart. My name is Robin Williams. I am here for a nose job.”

“Perish the thought!”

Dr. Collins breezed by and I grabbed him by the wrist. “Oh! You’re okay. From what I could see, you’re _fine._ It went beautifully. I’m putting a rush on this down at the lab--just want to get a second pair of eyes on it--and I will call you with the official results sometime this afternoon, alright?”

“Thank you so much, doctor. I love you.” He winked and gave me a wave. Combined with the drugs, the relief I felt at the end of the procedure caused me to become exceedingly affectionate for at least an hour.

I was wheeled back to our holding pen, and you helped me into my recliner-bed where I was supposed to rest for a little while. Your eyes were noticeably redder than they were when I left you. My darling. Thank you for being there for me yet again. You removed my shower cap and kissed my forehead. 

“I love you, Edge. I love you so, so much.”

“And I love you, Bono.”

“No, I mean I _really_ love you.”

“I mean it, too.”

“You’re my _best friend,_ Edge.”

“And you are mine. How did it go?” 

Even though I probably wasn’t supposed to talk very much, my throat seemed normal, and I could feel my strength returning. I told you all about my little adventure in the other room. 

“Let’s get you out of this place,” you said, giving my hand a squeeze.

“Yes.”

You helped me dress and shepherded me to the car. On the way to the airport, you stopped at a grocery store. I stayed in the car and looked at a dandelion that was growing from a crack in the sidewalk. “I think this should be sufficient,” you said, returning moments later with a pint of doctor-sanctioned (you made sure) strawberry ice cream. Which we shared. Somebody had amassed a small collection of plastic takeaway cutlery in his glove box.

I came crashing down from my adrenaline rush almost as soon as I sank into my seat on the plane, and this was just as well. Why annoy you with fretting about lab results? The next thing I knew, you and I were in a car on its way to Èze. We had never seen the place in the fall, and even though it was October, the trees were not stripped bare. Not even close. In fact, they looked almost exactly the way they do in the summer, with maybe a few warm olive variations here and there. The afternoon sun was noticeably lower in the sky, though, and the light was golden and less frantic to erase every shadow. Blue diagonal stripes began to decorate the ground. I took my phone out of my pocket, turned it on, and checked for messages. Nothing yet.

“It’ll be okay,” you said, kissing my temple.

“Thanks, Edge.”

Something seemed a bit off as we approached the villa, but I couldn’t put my finger on why until we were inside. As it turned out, we were not alone. “I wanted it to be nice for you when we arrived,” you explained. “So I asked Cécile to stop by and...be Cécile. She knows what’s going on with you.” I looked around. Not only was the place spotless, but she had also decorated it with small vases holding chrysanthemums, Queen Anne’s lace, and some of the first leaves of autumn. The stale air I had expected was replaced by something delicious and bubbly that Cécile was tending to on the stove. 

“Qui est cette vision de la beauté?” I asked, and she walked over to us, spoon in hand.

“My dear boys,” she whispered _in English_ , her eyes brimming. She caressed my cheek and then yours, and I was overcome with affection for her. 

“Résultats de laboratoire...en heures? Today?” you said.

I pointed to myself. “Bien.” Then I shrugged in a way I hoped might telegraph _optimistically_ and moved past her to investigate what was happening on the stove: a hearty stew of beans, sausage, possibly duck...

“Cassoulet de grand-mère,” she beamed.

“Her grandmother’s cassoulet, holy shit, Edge,” I murmured over my shoulder. “Divin, merci beaucoup, Cécile.” I kissed her cheek and was pleased to see I had the ability to make her blush. 

She shooed us outside. “Aller! C'est une belle journée!”

I followed you past the empty, covered pool to the walled garden. You brushed off a few leaves and sat on one end of a bench. I stretched out beside you and rested my head on your lap. I looked up at you. Tipping your head back, you exhaled and said, “It’s warm in the sun.” The light on your face was so beautiful I was almost moved to tears. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked it. Nothing yet. I made sure the battery was still charged. It was. And the ringer was on. Okay. Your move, Dr. Collins.

Your fingers smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “Sorry it’s not all that short anymore,” I said.

“Don’t worry. You’ll always be lethally attractive to me.”

“Silly profession that requires me to change my look every couple of years.”

“You also just get bored, love.”

“That, too.” 

“My little chameleon.” I reached up and touched your mustache. It’s semi-rough texture was like a strange, tiny security blanket for me. You smiled and I gave your chin a doting pinch. “Enjoy that while you can.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m probably gonna let it grow back in.”

“That’ll look good on you.” My hand dragged along the ground, and I picked up a brown leaf. “Under pressure,” I sang, absently tearing the leaf apart along its veins. The remnants crumbled in my hands like old newspaper clippings, and you dusted them off my shirt.

“This will be over soon, B.”

“Waiting is the worst.”

You nodded sympathetically. “Things like this make you an adult. A man.”

“Yeah. I guess they do.” I thought about that. I could feel an idea forming and connections being made in my mind--that exquisite moment when the muse’s hammer hits. Our eyes met. “Edge. I need to write about things that matter.”

“Hmm?”

“I need to write about the things that make you an adult.”

“Okay.”

“You know. Essential things.”

“That sounds like a good idea, B.”

We listened to the waves. A breeze became trapped in the garden’s corner and caused a few golden leaves and some dust to swirl up into a miniature, short-lived tornado. “I love you,” I whispered.

“Always.”

I was coming up with a mental list of possible topics when I heard a rustling sound beneath the bench. Peach Boy hopped up between my feet, walked along the length of my body, and sat on my chest, facing me. We lavished him with attention, and after a while he moved closer to my neck. Plopping heavily on his side, he wedged his sweet head beneath my chin. I held him like a baby, like I held Jordan when she was just a tiny infant. He purred until he fell asleep, and you stroked my hair until I fell asleep, and there we were, just another strange little family on a bench somewhere.

In the film adaptation of my life, Edge, I want the following moment to be the tear-jerking, comedic centerpiece. Please score it as such. (I assume you will be in charge of the soundtrack, and christ, if you have any pull at all in terms of casting, the actor playing me will have to have my eyes and nose. But make sure they pick someone slightly less attractive than yours truly. People will need to see him and say, “He kind of looks like Bono, I guess, but he just doesn’t have the same charisma,” etc.) Anyway, back to this scene. I want strings, obviously, but I’ve really got to have the most ecstatic chime you can wrench from that guitar you love almost as much as me. The phone will ring, and I will wake up with a violent convulsion that will jangle the nerves of Peach Boy. He will dig his claws into my chest, I will shout in pain, and he will scramble away from us. You--oh Edge, the actor who plays you has an _impossible_ task ahead of him--you will insinuate your hand into the front pocket of my tight little jeans and wrench the phone out of it. In one fluid movement, you will flip it open, push the correct button for the speaker, say hello, and hand it to me.

“This is Dr. Collins calling for Bono.”

“This is Bono.”

“The lesions are benign, my friend.”

“Oh my god.”

“We’ll figure this thing out. For now, don’t worry. This is good news.”

“Thank you so much for calling me. Oh, Edge.”

“My pleasure.” He chuckled. “Do you you still love me?”

“More than ever, sir.”

“Excellent. Your job right now is to get some rest. Take care.”

My hands were shaking. You closed the phone, took me in your arms, and kissed me. Our faces were wet with tears of happiness and relief, and they sparkled on our eyelashes like diamonds in the sun. The burden we had been carrying lifted, and the cavernous space it had occupied inside us quickly became repopulated with thousands of points of light. I repeated your name a few times, as is my wont, and kissed you some more.

I bounded back to the house to tell Cécile, who gave me an actual hug and said, “Bonne nouvelle mon cher.” She indicated that she was almost ready to feed us. I owed Ali a “we made it here safely” call, so I went to the balcony and opened my phone. You were walking along the beach and smiled up at me. As I talked to Ali, I watched you studying the pebbles along the shore. _How blessed those pebbles must feel,_ I thought, _to have such a glorious creature even considering their existence._

“Ali! We are here.”

“You sound happy, love.”

“As a matter of fact I am.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s a long boring story. Suffice it to say, I thought I might get some bad news today, but it turned out to be good news.”

“That’s great, baby.”

“And I adore you. I adore you and the girls.”

“My my. We adore you as well.” 

Jordan grabbed the phone. “Hi Daddy!”

“Sweetheart! I was just thinking about you.”

“What about?”

“When you were a tiny baby and every night--”

“I had to sleep on top of you. I’ve heard that story a million billion times.” She giggled.

“Ha, I’m sure you have. I love you very much.”

“I love you too! Bring us back some candy.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please?”

“Absolutely. I’ll see you very soon.”

We hung up, and I waved you inside, where Cécile fed us what I’m going to say was without hyperbole the best food I have ever eaten and I don’t think I will ever get over it. We insisted she join us, which she did while we rhapsodized and lingered over her grandmother’s cassoulet (plus madeleines). Noticing my face, which had undoubtedly aged several years on that roller coaster of a day, she told me to rest, asked you to look after me, and kissed us goodbye. 

The setting sun was nestled among gilded clouds, and the white room had never been so lovely. Cécile had decorated it with black-eyed susans and candles in little yellow glasses. And, bless her, she had aired out the place and made the bed with crisp white sheets that felt heavenly against bare skin. I sank into them and groaned with pleasure while you lit the candles. 

We met in the middle of the bed with an embrace. That face of yours, Edge. That face is my shelter.

“I found something for you, baby.” You had been holding a pearl, and you put it in my hand. It felt warm and smooth, and I studied its perfection in the fading light.

“You found this today?”

“Today on the beach.”

“Amazing. You are an angel of love, do you realize that?” Of all the people I know, if anyone were to find a pearl among the rocks, it would be you. I rolled it along your cheekbone.

You shrugged. “When I was a boy, I liked to look for four-leaf clovers.”

“I am going to die.”

“And I suppose I just never stopped looking for things on the ground.”

I kissed the pearl, carefully placed it inside the small corral created by my watchband on the bedside table, and returned to you. 

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” you said. “Actually, we probably shouldn’t. I’ve read that the come-down after anesthesia can be rough.”

“I feel good now.”

“That’s because you’ve received some excellent news.”

“And food. And my handsome boyfriend here just gave me a pearl, no big deal.”

Your lips brushed my cheek. “You’ll be wiped out pretty soon. I can tell.”

“You’re probably right. You must be tired, too, christ.”

You smiled. “We can talk for a while. Hold each other. Nice and easy. Very relaxed.” Your voice was hypnotically calm. I moved closer, and you put your arm around me. Your fingers stroked my neck, and your chest and your heartbeat felt like a reward. Like home. My eyelids were becoming heavier.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

Forehead kiss. “You belong to me.” Five little syllables. God, Edge. Despite my exhaustion, I could feel myself stirring against your leg.

“I miss it,” I said, my hand moving down your stomach.

“I know you do. So do I.”

“Edge.”

“It’s my turn.” I lifted my chin and accepted your mouth and your tongue. Your teeth bit my lower lip and held it for a second, and I sighed. The room was golden. Everything was golden. Including you, my golden god, and you said, “When you wake up…”

“Yes.”

“Hard and ready and needing me on top of you and deep inside you...”

“Yes.”

“I swear to god I'll give you everything you want and more.”


	8. Gray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a whole lot happens in this chapter: they wake up the next day, take a walk, and come back home, but after the previous chapter, I thought my boys had earned a day of relaxation. And as the Talking Heads once said, "Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens." :)
> 
> Also Edge takes some time to reflect on Popmart, and I wrote a little scene acknowledging PJ's 100% correct idea that Bono is a fox. Not a cat. I continue to drop French words and phrases into this thing like I know what I'm doing (I do not). Sorry if I'm off here and there.
> 
> Finally, a couple of weeks ago a certain Edge-produced photo of Bono emerged. It took this tiny fandom by storm, and I just had to drop it into this story. It's from Edge's book of photography that was included in the 30th anniversary of the Joshua Tree, and if you haven't already memorized it, I highly recommend you check it out. But approach it with caution, as this photo has the power to destroy worlds.

_Oh, you could have continued describing the rest of our weekend together, but instead you chose to end it on a cliffhanger that would force me to finish it for you. I know how you operate, B._

_Because I know everything leading up to that cliffhanger was difficult for you to write, and because I love you beyond measure, I have picked up the gauntlet you threw down, and now here I am tapping you on the shoulder saying, “Excuse me? I believe this is your gauntlet.” Or whatever you do with them._

_What exactly_ are _gauntlets, anyway? They sound borderline sexy. Just a minute._

 _gaunt·let_  
ˈɡôntlət,ˈɡäntlət  
noun  
a stout glove with a long loose wrist.  
historical: an armored glove, as worn by a medieval knight.  
the part of a glove covering the wrist.

_Well, isn’t that interesting? And borderline sexy, I suppose, if you’re into gloves._

_(Are you into gloves? Just curious. I can’t say I am, not especially, but as you know I can be persuaded to engage in any number of activities with you. Easily. Too easily. Right now I’m imagining you, shirtless, slowly taking off a pair of black leather gloves, one finger at a time, and suddenly I find myself into gloves.)_

_I know it’s late, but I have a bottle of 50 year-old Macallan within reach. I even have some left. Would you like to meet me down here in my computer lair, as you call it? Bring some gloves, if you can find them._

_You know what? Never mind. I’ll find some. Please get over here._

_\-- E._

\-----

Gentle waves of increasing happiness rippled over me as I woke up the next morning and started to realize where I was.

 _You are in Éze._  
_You are with him._  
_He’s going to be fine._

I moved over to spoon you and kiss your freckled shoulder, which was surprisingly cool, and for a moment I was afraid something terrible had happened to you overnight. But your neck told my lips that your heart was still beating, and your chest told my hand that you continued to breathe. I buried my nose into the nape of your neck, and its heady scent told me you probably could use a shower, and a low rumble from your stomach told me _Not until you feed us._ You murmured and grunted agreeably, and all I needed to do that day was take care of you. Dote on you. Love you.

“How are you?”

“I’ve been hit by a truck,” you mumbled.

It was still quite early, and the rising sun was obscured by the kind of overcast sky that just feels right on an autumn day. “Go back to sleep, love. I’ll be outside.”

“So fucking tired.”

“I know.” I kissed your forehead and got out of bed. I needed to practice. My subconscious had been putting something together overnight, and I didn’t want to lose it. Still, I went to the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker. I poured a glass of orange juice, spread some butter on a baguette remnant, and returned upstairs. I placed this pre-breakfast snack on your bedside table and covered you up.

One blue eye had a question. “Reg?”

“Don’t worry. We can do it later.”

“Gonna hold you to that,” you said, hugging your pillow as if it were my chest. Or possibly lower, you little tart.

Once I was downstairs, I showered, tossed on some clothes, and checked my email messages. I had told Larry that you and I would be in Éze working on songs, and he shot back the following bullet points:

1\. A guitar that sounds like a guitar  
2\. The four of us playing in the same room like an actual band

 _Both of these ideas are completely insane,_ I responded.

I took some coffee and the rest of the baguette, along with my guitar, out to the dusty table on the ground floor patio facing the beach. The light gray clouds resembled a thick blanket over the sea. I don’t know about you, but an overcast day always helps me focus, and since my mind had been purged of your cancer concerns, the ideas really started to flow. And I loved the sound of my old Taylor out there in the open air.

 _Essential things,_ you had said. What do essential things sound like? Probably not the sound of a man questioning his guitar’s every chord and feeding them through one delay effect after another. Probably more like a teenage boy falling in love with the shape and feeling of his guitar's neck in his left hand and the way its body seemed almost human on his right thigh...the way the diagonal strap across his back felt like the embrace of a lover. The way the strings obeyed his fingers and gave him a second, better voice.

I thought about last year, last summer touring Europe and the rest of the world later on, the two of us in complete harmony. We had found a way to shut it all off and retreat to a place that was purely our own. You were in control, and I was the beloved. This shift was exactly what we needed at the time. I knew that if given the chance, you would be ravenous to have me as often as possible. I was indeed helpless when faced with your beauty, and you used that to your advantage every time, but I was not prepared for your innate understanding and tenderness.

Am I a bad guitarist because I remember these things more clearly than the majority of our actual shows? Detailed descriptions provided upon request.

Kansas City. We were so blatant and obvious with each other. I couldn’t stop smiling. You were flat-out giggling. A certain amount of grab-ass. Burroughs thought we were a couple of lightweights.

New York. The Plaza, of course. Cherries jubilee from room service in honor of me because you are ridiculous. Re-enacting any number of things.

Edmonton. Drunk. On the floor.

Chicago. You made me cut your hair for the first time. I nearly fainted.

Rotterdam. I was needy. You were exceptionally generous.

London. An entire day between shows spent in the room. Uncomfortable mattress. Beard-burn on my back. Rugburn on my front. I think Sharon and co. bought my shellfish allergy excuse.

Paris. Absinthe and strippers, and then back at the hotel the night really began.

Barcelona. We evaded our security and I smuggled a disguised you into Sagrada Familia. All I had to do was wear a baseball cap. You somehow got your hands on a wig. We both had religious experiences that we tearfully discussed over an obscene assortment of jamon Iberico and boutique cheeses. And then you fucked me. (Sorry.)

Toronto. Explosive reunion following a break. I was once again a sexual being after living with a newborn, a nervous, first-time mother, and a revolving door of in-laws.

Montreal. A certain clean-cut young man demanded dim sum with his three bandmates...which we enjoyed in the company of several dozen elderly Asian customers who were gloriously unaware of who we were. You could not say no to anything that was offered to you, and later on, neither could I.

Tampa. We were both livid after playing to a nearly-empty stadium of only 17,000 people. Things got a little rough. There were bite marks and noise complaints.

Rio de Janeiro. You were insatiable after another break, feverish because of Rio, and you had your way with me while I was on my hands and knees staring at Sugarloaf Mountain from our penthouse.

Melbourne. Gorgeous room with red walls. The tour was starting to wrap up. Our set was showing signs of wear-and-tear, as were our costumes, which were beginning to rip in certain hard-to-explain areas.

Tokyo. “Just drive anywhere for thirty minutes, please,” you said, and the partition went up...pale limbs painted with reflected neon.

Johannesburg. It was over: joy, relief, and sadness. I heard you crying in the shower and I joined you.

“I swear to christ I could listen to you play that thing all day.” You were smiling down at me from the balcony, and you raised your glass of orange juice.

“Was it any good? I was barely paying attention, I’m afraid.”

“B minor, G, D, A...I think. Around and around, different combinations.”

That seemed right. I pulled a pen from my pocket and wrote that on the back of my left hand. Shrugging, I said, “You never know.”

“Oh, but you do, Edge. You always do.”

I turned all the way around and gazed up at your damp hair. “I was just thinking about you taking a shower.”

“Great minds think alike.”

“In Johannesburg.”

You blinked. “Okay, except for that.” Looking out at the sea, you sighed. “Gotta love a tour that begins and ends with a minor breakdown.”

“And yet, despite everything, that was one of the best years of my life.”

“Mine, too.”

“Because of you.”

“Because of you.”

We stared at each other for a few dreamy seconds. “Do you know if we have a ladder?”

“Of course I don’t, Edge.”

“I’m feeling this urge to reenact a certain balcony scene.”

“I’m sure we have a ladder.”

I came closer and stood directly beneath you. A few grains of sand had worked their way into my shoes, and for a moment I had the surreal thought that if my feet were oysters, I could turn the sand into additional pearls for you. “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Bono is the sun.”

You posed heroically and chuckled. “That’s right, and don’t you forget it.”

“Hungry?”

“Edge, for as long as you have known me, has that answer ever been no?”

We strolled along the empty beach to Édouard’s. Although you seemed one hundred percent back to normal, you took my arm and walked a little more slowly than usual, and we smiled at each other, happy to have a semi-legitimate excuse to touch each other in public. (I’m sure those two seagulls were appalled, though.)

“My biologist friends,” Édouard beamed at us as we entered his bistro. We hadn’t seen him in over a year.

“Correction: oceanographers,” you smiled.

“But of course. How splendid you both look. Let me make something special for you.”

“You’re singing our song, Édouard.”

Even though we had no people to watch, and the sea and sky were phoning it in that day, we elected to sit outside at our summertime table. “Doesn’t yesterday seem like forever ago?” you asked, pushing your hair off your forehead. Now that it was growing again, I prepared myself for the upcoming months/years of your hands’ compulsive preening.

“Unbelievable.”

“Like a bad dream.”

I squeezed your knee. “But now it’s today, and all we’re going to do is enjoy ourselves.”

Ticklish, you took my hand and kissed it. “I love you. You and those bashful cheeks of yours. I wish I could kiss you in public.”

“And so you do.”

“Yeah, but I walk a pretty disciplined line, don’t I? I want to kiss you full on the mouth. I want to hold your face in my hands. Tongues. Little moans. All of it.” You inhaled and exhaled, a corrupt expression on your face.

“But the fact that we can’t do it makes you want it more. Right?”

“Even the most vanilla things become erotic. Like if you saw a man and a woman kissing, that’s kind of so what. But if it’s us…”

“People would stare.”

“Just talking about it is a turn on. Even after all this time.”

“So don’t stop. What else would you like to do with me out here?”

“Vanilla?” You unfastened the second button on your shirt.

“Yes. Things no one would care about if I were a woman.”

“I want you to do it, too.”

“Okay.” I stretched my arms above my head and watched your eyes travel up and down their length.

“Well. I’d want to hold your hands. Thoughtfully, you know. Really studying them and running my fingers over different parts. Maybe I’d go up your arm.”

“I’d call you baby.”

“And then we could sit with our thighs grazing each other. My arm around you.”

“Our faces just inches apart. Smiling. Little kisses.”

“Extended whispering sessions.” You beamed at me. I was becoming jealous of women in general.

“Feet touching.”

“You can do that right now, Edge, you know. I’d touch your face and keep my hand there. It’s all about lingering, isn’t it? As it is, we can maybe steal a glance or a touch, but we can’t linger.”

“We can’t stare.”

“I can’t sit on your lap.”

“Well, you do it when you’re drunk.”

“I can’t dance with you.”

“Also when drunk.”

You laughed. “Why do you think I get drunk, Edge? I’d feed you little bites of my dessert and you would groan with pleasure.”

“I’d find all kinds of reasons to touch your hair.”

“I’d make obnoxious compliments that are more like proclamations to the whole room.”

“Such as…?”

“Oh! You are a genius _and_ just look at that face!” You addressed the empty patio. “Everyone, have you seen a more beautiful man in your life? I swear to god.”

“The two of you are equally beautiful, obviously,” Édouard said, sliding a couple of croque-madames in front of us. Your expression was one of pure greed and delight.

“Édouard. How did you know this was exactly what I wanted?”

“Some people just have a gift, B. This looks incredible.”

He smiled indulgently. “Bon appetit, my friends.”

Our breakfast was so delicious we had to remind ourselves to slow down. You set your fork on your plate and looked out at the pearly sky and the gray waves. Then you slid your purplish sunglasses down your nose a bit, scoffed, and replaced them.

“What’s up?”

“Most of the time my sunglasses give things this heightened reality that makes them look better than they really do. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I mean, you’re already under a rose-colored filter and will stay there for the rest of my life. You are monstrously attractive to me.”

“Likewise.”

You took off your glasses and frowned at them while rubbing your nose. “Wearing glasses all the time can be a drag, though. Pressure on the bridge of my nose; my ears hurt. They suck in the rain. Hot drinks fog them up. I’m forever dealing with smudges.”

“Yeah.”

You brightened. “But guess what? I don’t have cancer, so who gives a fuck?”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“I will drink to that in moderation.” Months ago your doctor had advised you to ease up on drinking and smoking, which you had attempted to do with varying levels of success.

“I suppose you’ll have to find oral gratification elsewhere.”

“Are you planning to buy me some sweets?” you asked archly.

“That, too.”

Eventually we left for Mme. Rousseau’s. She gasped when she saw us, and you poured on the intermediate-French charm as only you can. She invited us behind her counter, where we looked at her beautiful pastries.

“Je ne sais pas, tout semble merveilleux,” you said carefully, punctuating it with a dismayed shrug.

Madame batted her lashes. “Pour vous, profiteroles des cygnes. Crème chantilly,” she said, and neither of us knew what she was saying until she pulled out a tray of cream puffs shaped like swans.

You laughed. “Exquis!”

“Aimez-vous?”

“You have no idea. Oui, merci beaucoup, Mme. Rousseau.”

“Créature chérie,” she murmured, gently pinching your ear. She put four in a box, and I slid an outrageous amount of money into her apron’s pocket.

You glanced at me and telegraphed _We are kissing this woman at the same time_. Standing on either side of her, we kissed her cheeks, and she shivered the same way all women do when this happens, as conceited as that sounds. But you know it’s true. They must be intuitive enough to realize that, while they are of course worthy of our affection, they’re also acting as a conduit for two men who love to kiss each other.

We walked back to the house, arm in arm again. “Remember how Ali said doves mate for life?” I asked.

You tilted your head. “Sure…?”

“So do swans.”

That made you grin. “Fuck it,” you said, and you surrounded my hand with both of yours. Even though it was early October, the Mediterranean Sea ensured that the temperature stayed a comfortable 68 degrees, so there was no real reason for us to be huddling so closely together. Your hands created a molten heat around mine. I loved how alive you were at that moment. “ _Hey! You’ve got to hide your love away_ ,” you sang to your audience of one.

I kissed you as we entered the kitchen. “I’ve got a present for you later,” I said, placing the swans in the refrigerator.

You were right behind me, and your hot hand flew to my belt. “Yes, you certainly do.”

“It’s an actual present, B.”

“Well, why not now?”

“I don’t know. Later just seems right.”

“Hmm. Was this present going to be appropriate had I received bad news yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating. What do you give the man who has everything and may or may not be terrified?”

“Somehow I came up with a solution.”

You kissed my cheek. “Well, thank you in advance. And here I am without a gift for you.”

“Oh, you’ve got something for me.” I pulled you closer and gave your ass a squeeze.

We retired to the living room couch--soft black leather stretched taut over a firm but yielding substance that honestly makes me want to fuck it if I think about it long enough. “So this is happening now?” you asked as I pinned your wrists above your head.

“No. Just some non-objective making out.” I let you feel my weight along the length of your body, buried my face in that glorious neck of yours, and enjoyed the vibrations under my tongue as you moaned.

“I think this has an objective, sir.”

Of course it did.

I had to pry myself away from your eager mouth a few minutes later. Breathless, you said, “Damn it, Edge, why?’

“I think we should at least attempt to work on some songs today.”

“It’s hard for me to have any semblance of self-control around you.” You attempted to pull me back down.

I resisted and sat on the floor facing you. “That’s why I’m taking over, love.”

“Edge.”

“I know you have ideas, and so do I. Let’s get them out of our heads and down on paper. And then we can go home tomorrow guilt-free.”

“I suppose.”

I studied your face fondly. “Eat your vegetables, B. They’ll make you big and strong.”

“I’m already uncomfortably big.”

I leaned over and kissed the area in question. Warm, straining denim. “My gorgeous boy.”

You groaned and stared at the ceiling while I fetched my guitar and some pads of paper, and we retreated to opposite ends of the couch. And I was right. We had a productive afternoon. I wrote down the chord sequence I had been playing earlier and decided to experiment some more, and I could hear your pen scribbling away whenever I paused. From time to time, you looked out the windows, deep in thought. A little nod, a raised eyebrow, a fleeting smile. I love watching you court the muse. Our eyes met, and you winked at me.

A year ago, we were only halfway into Popmart, and my empathy for you had become stronger than ever before. We had begun a month-long break, and that was when the vulnerability of being the submissive partner started to sink in. This was a new experience for me. As busy as Morleigh and I were with the baby, I found myself feeling needy and wondering what you were doing with Ali. I had become accustomed to standing beneath your prismatic, reflected light, and I missed it. Little pangs of jealousy and insecurity cropped up. It’s thrilling but dangerous to give so much of yourself to another person. And it made me uneasy knowing I was completely at the mercy of a man who loved someone else as much as me. Someone else who was there first.

I remembered the middle-of-the-night phone calls I received from you once ZooTV was over. I don’t think I completely understood the withdrawal you were going through at the time. It was different from mine. But last year, I knew why you couldn’t stop yourself from checking in and persuading me to slip into our dynamic for at least a few minutes back then. Six years ago, I gave you a powerful drug, and last year you let me have a taste of it. It was a high like no other, but the inevitable crashes were worrisome. I promised myself that I would take better care of you this time.

But at its best, being under your spell was fucking divine...divine in every sense of the word (and fucking in every sense of the word too, I suppose). As the embodiment of my fetish, you, my love, were perfectly bossy and possessive and greedy and sexy and charming and...near-godlike to me at times, and my purpose in life was to worship you and do your bidding. And then, every few days, we set that aside--well, mostly aside--while we entertained tens of thousands of fans on five continents.

But you know what, Bono? As far as I'm concerned, sex is only part of it with you. More than anything else, I love you. I love the pleasure of your company, and I have been blessed to spend my life with you--so many years together in this circus of an existence we’ve created. Most people are lucky if they can find a friend who halfway understands them. What we have is frighteningly rare, and the true miracle is we both appreciate this.

“I like being in your band, Edge.” You were staring at me.

“I like being in your band, too.”

“That was really wonderful, what you were playing.”

“Thanks, B.”

I had to rely on muscle memory to play it again and write it down. D, A, G, E minor.

You flipped through about six pages filled with your weird, loopy script, and I caught glimpses of words like _man, wind, beautiful,_ and _mole?_ You grinned at them. “Just some disconnected images. We’ll see.”

“Twenty-five years from now, those will be behind glass at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

“Like I'd ever relinquish them to that fly-by-night outfit.”

I shook my head and chuckled. Taking your hand, I rose and pulled you up with me. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Yes, let’s.”

The light up there was soft and gentle, and the walls took on the same cool gray as the sky. Minus the usual afternoon glare, every non-white object appeared to be saturated with color, including your lips, your eyes, and the dusting of freckles on your left cheek. As you took off your clothes, your skin revealed itself to be a patchwork quilt of different colors ranging from a creamy white that never saw the light of day to the peachy remnants of what used to be a sunburn that had faded to a sort of tan over the course of the summer. I took you in my arms and kissed you. “Undress me,” I whispered, and a few minutes later you were on your knees before me and taking me in your mouth. I ran my fingers through your dark brown hair, which was so shiny it resembled a gunmetal bronze. My back rested against one of the narrow walls between the windows. I gazed over my shoulder at the sea below us and felt like I was flying.

We moved to the unmade bed and kissed, long and deep, hands everywhere. “Mon coeur,” you murmured into my ear.

“More.”

You were happy to show off. “Mon amour, mon ange, mon trésor,” you said, kissing my neck and punctuating each endearment with a little bite. You paused, smiled at me, and touched my nose. “Mon lapin.”

I paused, trying to remember. “So you think I’m a rabbit?”

“The sexiest rabbit in all the land.”

“Okay, mon chat.”

“The T is silent, Reg.”

“Mon _cha_ , then.” I bit your neck.

“Meow.”

I rolled you onto your back, startled as always by your beauty. Your skin was becoming more delicate with age--and I could see faint wrinkles around your eyes and mouth that wouldn’t leave. Your lips, swollen though they were, seemed slightly thinner. Your eyebrows were a couple of shades lighter. You were no longer the taut little athlete of six months ago, but you were no less appealing. Your eyes were wide and vulnerable. The hint of androgyny that astonished me over ten years ago had returned to your face and body, and my god I wanted you. I wanted to feel you writhing beneath me again.

Earlier that morning, I had thought about creating a scene with you that would firmly reestablish my dominance. But considering everything that had happened the day before, that didn’t seem right, and we didn’t need it. When I looked down at you, I was overcome with gratitude for your precious life and the gift of your love. You looked up at me and placed your hands on either side of my face, and I could tell you were thinking the same thing. Our eyes, our hands, our kisses, and our unique language of sounds ranging from faint gasps to piercing cries were the only means of communication we required as I made love to you in our white room. We barely said a word.

Then we lay together beneath the blankets in contented silence for an indeterminate amount of time. It could have been ten minutes, or it could have been an hour. We were quite still. I felt your warm breath on my chest, and you listened to my heart. Eventually you moved up and kissed my cheek, your hand on the top of my head, and your top leg bent and resting on my stomach. Your body was in a sort of fetal position that made me think of John and Yoko on the cover of Rolling Stone. (Intentional, B?) I gazed at your dear face.

“Je t’aime.”

“J’adore.”

We continued to come down as we took a warm, lazy shower where we barely broke eye contact. “That was beautiful, Edge,” you whispered.

We put on bathrobes and padded down to the kitchen. I took Cécile’s cassoulet out of the refrigerator, and you selected two blue bowls and two wine glasses. We stood together in front of the microwave and watched the cassoulet heat up, just a couple of guys getting ready to have some leftovers for supper.

“Let’s eat upstairs,” I said. The bowls were volcanically hot, so I put them in a basket with some napkins and silverware. “I’ll be up in a second--just have to find a few things.”

“Okay.”

“And bring the swans.”

“Double okay, mon petit chou.”

I paused and looked back at you. “My little...cabbage?”

“My little cream puff. But it’s probably both, knowing this fucking language.”

I shrugged. “Eh. They’re both pretty cute.”

I got what I needed, and we reconvened in the white room, where you were checking on the cassoulet. “It’s somehow even better than it was last night, but it’s about one step away from being nuclear,” you reported.

“Well, it can cool down while I give you your present.”

“Yes!”

The present was in my suitcase. I hadn’t wrapped the two items, unless surrounding them with shirts and jeans counts, and that was how I presented them to you. We sat on the landing outside the door.

“Edge, this is the most slapdash attempt at gift-wrapping I have ever seen.”

“Somehow I knew you would appreciate it. Open the jeans first.”

You grinned and discarded the jeans. “Oh wow. I...I think I remember this…? You took it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” I had framed a photo of you from when we were in Death Valley in 1986. Anton had been humoring my interest in photography. He answered my many questions and encouraged me to take a few pictures during some down time on that day when we shot the album cover. The photo you were looking at was rather pedestrian in terms of composition--just a head and shoulders kind of shot. Your hair was pulled back, and you were wearing a dark coat. But the expression on your exquisite face had always haunted me. You had never seen the photo before.

“Well, if that isn’t the look of love, Edge, I don’t know what is.”

“Your eyes, the corners of your mouth…”

“I’m almost sort of squinting, but I’m not.”

“You’re like a cat when it’s feeling pleased...or an eagle zeroing in on its prey.”

“Or a fox about to pounce.”

I looked at your face appraisingly. “You know, come to think of it, you’re probably more like a fox than a cat.”

“Well, I don’t know what the French word for fox is, so you’re just going to have to look that one up.” I could tell you approved.

I put my arm around you and kissed your forehead. “My darling little fox.”

“I wanted you so badly back then, but I didn’t think it was possible. This”--you said, gesturing to the room and to me--“would have blown that little fox’s mind.”

I handed you a similar shirt-wrapped item.

“Whatever could this be...fun shirt, by the way. Ahh, it’s you, Edge! It’s you in Memphis last year, the morning after, if I’m not mistaken.” You looked at me, your mind making connections. “Taken by me. Out on the balcony.”

“Same composition.”

“Same look of love.”

“I finally got around to developing my photos from last year. Some of them were yours. This one...I mean--”

“Look how serene and content you look. And maybe just a little bit tired.”

“But in a good way.”

“In the best way.”

“I thought we could hang them here by the door,” I said. I’d brought an electric screwdriver and a level from downstairs. “On opposite walls, so they can stare at each other for as long as they like.”

“Oh. Yes. So when we’re not here, we still kind of are.”

I hung the photos at eye level on the narrow walls of the landing while you brought the food out and poured the wine. Standing between the two pictures, you ducked and grinned. “It’s like I’m intruding on their private moment, and I don’t want to interrupt them.”

We sat on the top step and ate beneath their spellbound, finally-connected gazes. We looked up at them from time to time and admired each other’s handiwork. After a while, I put my bowl down and pulled you closer. Your head automatically found its place on my shoulder, and we sat together in the gray shadows. Adored. Beloved. Essential.


	9. Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter takes place during July 1999 (and the email is from a few weeks later). Some portions of that email are direct Bono quotes, by the way. I figured that we've all heard him say those things dozens of times, so why not Edge, too?
> 
> Edge's dad didn't sleep in a drawer, at least not that I know of, but mine did. <3 
> 
> Speaking of dads, I am not sure if Bob refused treatment. VERY HARD to find information one way or the other! For the sake of the story, I'm guessing he did.
> 
> LOVE MY READERS! Thank you for encouraging me! And BIG thanks to PJ and Shannon for advising me on matters about which I know nothing.

_Edge, I am officially an unofficial student of Jeffrey Sachs at Harvard Fucking University._ Please hold your applause until I am finished, thank you.

_I really do not know how we are going to do this, but it’s happening. He has taken me under his wing as I attempt to wrap my mind around the idea of Jubilee 2000 and how I’m going to help convince The Powers That Be to forgive the crushing weight of old debts that third-world economies have been carrying for generations._

_Jeff is my Africa Guru. You would love him. In fact, I know if you were here, he would take a shine to you so quickly that I would be left in the dust without a second thought. He is a genius, and I am so thankful that Bobby Shriver introduced us. I’m (slowly, slowly) learning about macroeconomics and international development...can you believe it? Me? The boy who couldn’t be arsed to write a two-page book report on_ A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man _?_

_Yesterday I met the person whose signature is on every American dollar, and I stood beside him wearing that hat you hate and the same rumpled suit jacket I had worn for three days in a row. I probably should look into buying a couple of neckties, too, for god’s sake. I am one hundred percent out of my league here, but you know me. Get a compelling idea into my head and I will become relentless. If I can't tell the world about us right now, if that is not my fight...I know this is the one, Edge. I think this will be the defining moment of our age. When the history books make a record of our times, this moment will be remembered for two things: the Internet and the everyday holocaust that is Africa. It is the biggest health threat since the bubonic plague wiped out a third of Europe._

_It’s an unsustainable problem for Africa and, unless we hermetically seal the continent and close our conscience, it’s an unsustainable problem for the world. But it will be hard to make this a fashionable cause because it’s hard to make it pop, you know? That, I guess, will be my job. But it’s not sexy. It’s not fun. I’m going to become One Of Those Fucking Celebrities, Edge. I know I have your support, but...say goodbye to having a cool boyfriend, I suppose. (Not that I’ve ever been particularly cool. I know, I know.)_

_But I’ve got to follow through on my ideals or I will betray something at the heart of who I am. And I am willing to do the work and shake the hands of people who...oh Edge. Some of these people. It is absurd if not obscene that celebrity is a door that such serious issues need to pass through before politicians take note. But there it is._

_Sorry for rambling. It’s just...I still need to sort this out, and I’m afraid you and Ali will bear the brunt of this obsession of mine for the foreseeable future. Please tell me if I become repetitive and boring, okay? I mean it. Stop me. Or at least slow me the fuck down._ You have ways. __

 _Christ, look at the time. It’s the wee hours over here. The girls are with you this month, yes? They are so fortunate to have you as their father. I bet they’re all getting ready for school, except for Sian, of course. Will you be dropping them off soon? Speaking of. I’m coming home in a couple of days. Ali is very close to her due date (so is Morleigh, for that matter). Time to take a break from my studies._ My studies. _I still can’t believe that._

 _You have a little alert thing on your phone that tells you when I send you an email now, don’t you? I love how you’re always so prompt at answering back, and I do_ not _take your devotion for granted. Could you please set up an alert like that for me, too? I really need it. You have no idea how many times I refresh my inbox after I send you something, and I'll sit there tapping that button and waiting like a schoolgirl for you to reply._

_I miss you._

_Writing these--stories? I guess?--for each other helps me feel closer to you when I’m so far away. This one has kept me up way past my bedtime for over several nights, I’m afraid, but at this point no one will be a bit surprised if I’m not as fresh as the morning dew in about five hours._

_Please, Edge, when you get this, could you call me? Don’t even read past the email. I miss you. I already said that. I miss your mouth. I can’t stop thinking about it. I know dropping the girls off and running errands is not exactly conducive to some special alone-time with yours truly. But could you park somewhere and phone me anyway? Because try as it might, my hand is not your mouth. I have your shirt, and you know what that does to me. Maybe you could tell me how hard I am, how good it feels when you suck me off, love, and to have me under your spell. Maybe you could talk me through it. Your mouth, your hands, your tongue...a man knows what a man needs, and you know, Edge, you just know every single time, and I want it now. I need it now._

_Please, Edge._

_(Okay, you can applaud.)  
B._

\-----

I was late. Escaping from Hyannis Port was no easy task. You were expecting me at 2:00, but by the time my driver left the airport at Nice, it was 4:00. Peak tourist season, no less. The note you tacked onto our front door merely said _upstairs_. I bounded up them two at a time and was quite out of breath once I reached the landing. (Nice to see you again, look-of-love us.)

You were gazing out the east window and slowly pivoted to face me as I gasped my apologies. You had been in Èze for a couple of weeks working on various projects by yourself, and I could tell you were disappointed. We wanted to spend at least one or two hours together before the rest arrived, but… 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to start getting used to this. They said they’d be here in about fifteen minutes.”

“Oh Edge, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. For what it’s worth, I’m twice as disappointed as--” 

Putting your arms around me and pulling me close, you murmured, “Baby. Shh.” Your white t-shirt had a small rip right in the center, maybe an inch below the collar, and number of black hairs were attempting to escape. I slipped my finger inside the hole, played with them, and felt the warmth of your skin. I inhaled: detergent, sweat, new electronics...dark. Your voice rumbled softly against an ear that had suction-cupped itself to your neck. “I need to change.”

I kissed the shirt. “Don’t wash it. I want it. For moments of...personal reflection.”

Your hand slid up my back and into my hair. “My little freak. Back in black, I see.”

“Black is my security blanket.”

“Follow me.”

You led me to the bathroom one floor below the white room and locked the door. “Heavens, Edge.” I checked my watch, hooked a finger through one of your belt loops, and said, “Twelve minutes. I’m game if you are.”

“That’s not why we’re here.” You put your hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. A sentimental smile. “This morning I was thinking about the first time we really met, back at Larry’s house.”

“A day that will live in infamy.” You nodded. “Sorry, go on.”

“And I imagined what present-day Edge would say to young Dave. Like if I could travel back in time for a few seconds and tell myself something, what would I say?”

“I don’t know, present-day The Edge. What _would_ you say?”

I caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the mirror (we really must do something about the lighting in there) and returned to your face with its enviable cheekbones seemingly carved from marble. “I’d tell myself to go over to you, to Paul, the one who said he wished he had hands like mine, and I’d convince myself to get you to follow me upstairs to that bathroom by Larry’s room and lock the door.”

“Ooh, so forward.”

“And then I’d tell myself to look at that bundle of energy a few feet away from me. Just really look at that beautiful face.” You studied me for a full ten seconds, and then you kissed my cheek. I imagined teenage you, gawky yet formidably intelligent, doing the same thing to my unlined, freckled cheek. “And then I would say, ‘I know you were expecting a girl, but this young man is the love of your life. And you will have adventures and create amazing things together.’” You looked at me again with love in your eyes and caressed my face. “‘And he will change the world.”’

“Edge. I love you.”

“I’m so proud of you.” Then you kissed me as present-day Edge, and I was breathless once again. Taking off your shirt and tossing it to me, you said, “We should get ready for them.”

“But…”

“Probably later.” 

I stood there gaping as you continued to undress. Your little bathroom scene was not only touching and _just so you_ , but it was also a Class A Edge manipulation. It managed to make me feel the bite of tardiness-guilt along with your truly selfless love for me. It also guaranteed that my anticipation and lust for you would last well into the night, thus making it ten times sexier than a twelve-minute _whatever it was I thought we could do._

You turned on the water and began taking one of your three-minute survival showers. How you are able to take care of everything in that amount of time is God’s private mystery. 

I splashed some water on my face and went downstairs. Cécile was puttering around the kitchen, and I kissed her hand. We heard the faint thuds of car doors being opened and closed. “Les invités sont arrivés,” she said with a smile, and I went outside to greet them. Three cars carrying Ali, the girls, Morleigh and Sian, Adam, Larry, Ann and little Elvis crammed our driveway, and soon I was in the eye of a hurricane of kisses, hugs, and a single punch on the shoulder. Several dozen bags were rounded up and organized, and the hurricane moved over to you, looking perfect as usual in a crisp white button-down and black jeans. I like that little skullcap you’ve been wearing all the time, by the way.

I introduced our newcomers to a charmed Cécile, who was quickly seduced by Larry’s beauty and Adam’s _je ne sais quoi._ As they left the kitchen, she grabbed my arm and pointed at them, her slender finger darting back and forth from one to the other. She gave me a questioning look, and I laughed. “Non. Copains. Frères.” 

You planned to take our friends/brothers and Ann to look at possible homes that afternoon while I stayed with Ali, Morleigh, and the children. Before you left, you gave the kids a tour of the new playroom that was loaded with books and toys.

“You made this for us?” Eve asked you. Elvis and Sian broke free from us and knocked over an impressive tower somebody had built with blocks.

“As a matter of fact I did.” This earned you a couple of hugs from my happy girls. You led us to the nursery next door with its cribs, changing table, and rocking chairs. Ali and Morleigh cooed appreciatively. 

“Gonna be so many _babies_ here,” Jordan said, looking at their swollen bellies.

You squatted down so the two of you were at eye level. “When my father was a baby, he didn’t have a room like this. In fact, his crib was a drawer in my grandparents’ dresser. They didn’t have a lot of money at the time.”

She glanced at a nearby chest of drawers. “Did they close the drawer?”

“No. They kept it open.”

Eve thought about this. “It might be kind of fun, though.”

“Kind of cozy,” Jordan said.

“I’ll put you both in some drawers when we get home,” Ali said, grabbing them as they shrieked. “I know the perfect ones.”

You said goodbye and left to look for houses with the others. The girls settled in with some books in the playroom, and I could tell that Sian and Elvis were very sleepy, having missed their naps. As for me, I had no idea what time it was, and I would have happily joined them in their little beds. But after I fly across the Atlantic, I find it’s always better if I try to stay awake and force my body to adjust to Europe time as soon as I land. Ali was justifiably tired and took advantage of the children’s quiet time to take a nap herself while Morleigh and I chatted in the living room.

“And how are you doing, my darling?”

She sank into the couch with a groan. “Half the time I feel like a fertility goddess and the other half it’s like, _What have I gotten myself into now?_

“That sounds about right.”

“I’m happy. I want to create, though. You guys need to finish that record so I can have something to do.”

“I’m afraid it might be another year...if you’re lucky.”

“Ugh. Can you at least give me some hints?”

“Well. It’s not gonna be stadiums this time. And it’s seeming like we won’t have any gargantuan props or screens. It’ll be more about the four of us playing music in a room.”

“Sort of a back-to-basics vibe?”

“Yeah. As basic as we get, anyway.”

“So minimal choreography.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Not to worry. I’ll weasel my way into it somehow.”

Cécile brought us some chamomile tea, with extra honey and lemon in it for me. She’s still concerned about my throat, Edge, even though I’ve told her several times that a combination of allergies was to blame for the entire crisis. She watched me until I took a sip, and then, satisfied, she returned to the kitchen.

“How is Edge, love?”

Morleigh exhaled and put her cup down. “Well. The other day he called me and asked me how I deal with jealousy.”

Fuck. “How do you do it?”

She stretched her legs and put her feet up on the couch. “I went into this with my eyes wide open. He belongs to both of us now, but he has always belonged to you. And on top of that, he belongs to the _world._ I’ve known that since day one.”

“So you’re not jealous?”

“I mean, I’ll have times when I miss him and I feel left out, but I know l provide something for him that no one else can. And I’m just cocky enough to know he’ll be with me forever, too.” She tapped her stomach and giggled. “There’s no escape now. Little Levi is making sure of that.”

I smiled. “You’re naming him Levi?”

“Yes! Do you love it?”

“I’m crazy about it. We’re naming ours Elijah.”

“Trying to become members of the tribe, eh?”

“Heh, I suppose so.”

She smiled and sighed. “It comforts me to know he’s with someone who loves him.”

“With me it’s a different situation, though.”

“What you’re trying to do is noble, and he feels like a jerk for being jealous of the time you devote to helping truly desperate people. But to do that, I’m sure you’ll have to deal with people who do not love you, or maybe they’ll just want to use you. He worries about you.”

“I totally understand that. I’d feel the same way.”

“Well. I think when you are together, you need to be present, Bono. Turn off the phone. No distractions. Let him know how important he is to you. And then when you are gone, stay in contact every day. That’s what we do.” She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger.

“You are exquisite, in case you didn't know. And very wise.”

“I just love you guys, what can I say? Totally rooting for you.” She pulled a blanket over her body, including her face, and cackled. “Our life is insane.”

I kissed her through the blanket. 

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I took the call upstairs. It was late morning on the east coast. As I spoke with Bobby, I collapsed onto your side of the unmade bed and inhaled you. I was instantly transported to our last tour, and the one before that, when I spent every night with you in an endless succession of hotel beds. I thought about the way the warmth of the blankets would cling to your skin in the morning. Our bed’s white sheets offered up cologne remnants, male skin kissed by night air, and a note that is unique to you, and I can only identify it as dark. Midnight blue. Navy. Indigo.

“I’m sorry, Bobby, what was that again?”

I must have drifted off for a while after the call. Big as it is, the house seemed to stir as you and everyone else returned, and I woke up embracing your pillow. Hearing my girls’ distant voices, I changed into swimming shorts, grabbed a towel, and made my way downstairs. Larry, Adam, and Ann were talking to each other in the dining room with the kind of low-key excitement that made me know their trip had been a success. You passed me and whispered, “I wanna fuck you.” And that was all you needed to do.

The pool was lovely and inviting as ever--its water warmed by a day’s worth of July sunshine--and I let it swallow me whole. Soon everyone else in our massive family of eleven was out there: children shrieking and adults laughing in the early evening light. Someone had put _Ziggy Stardust_ on the stereo. A shy Ali lowered herself into the water, and I swam over to her and showered her spectacular body with affection. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” I declared.

“I’m as big as a house, baby.”

“Fucking enchantress.” 

I pulled her beneath the surface and kissed her lips. We should figure out a way to rig up some underwater cameras in that pool, Edge, because I’m fairly certain that little scene would have been a cinematic masterpiece. When we came up for air, I noticed that you, Morleigh, and Sian were engaged in similar activities. I got out of the water and watched the two of you push your tiny, dark-haired daughter around on an inflatable whale. A floating puff from our cottonwood tree landed on your beard, and Sian picked it off and held it above her head as if it were a prize.

Cécile had prepared a light meal for all of us, and we trickled in and out of the kitchen with plates laden with Provençal salads and various treats. You kissed my forehead and sat beside me. Your ears, backlit by the setting sun, were pink and downy, and I couldn’t resist reaching over and touching one. “So soft.”

You smiled at me indulgently and looked up at the trees. “That big sycamore might be two hundred years old, wouldn’t you say?”

I followed your gaze. “It’s easily the best tree out here.”

“You’ve got to respect trees that survived the war...or wars. Last week an elderly man told me this area was heavily bombarded and there was even a famine...just 55 years ago.”

“I can’t imagine that happening in a place this peaceful.” We were lost in thought for a few moments. The things that tree must have witnessed.

“There was a sycamore like that in my neighborhood when I was growing up. I used to pass it on my way to school. In the winter, its seed pods looked like musical notes to me.”

I took your hand and pictured you as a child walking beneath that lucky tree...lucky to have your attention, lucky to inspire your imagination. I heard a meow, and Peach Boy hopped onto my lap. We butted heads, and I fed him a small chunk of tuna from my salad.

“That can’t be a star over there already.”

“It’s just a plane.” We waved at it.

Two breathless young faces framed with dripping hair eclipsed the tree and the plane. “Daddy, would you and Edge like to get married?” Jordan asked.

“We just married Sian and Elvis,” Eve said, grinning.

“I don’t see why not. Edge, will you marry me?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Okay! Hold hands.” We sat up in our lounge chairs and did as we were told. “Peach Boy can be the flower girl.”

“Flower girl? He’s our best man.” 

The girls giggled and stroked his orange fur. “Sweet good boy,” Jordan said.

“My children!” Eve announced theatrically. “This is the church of being happy. Daddy, do you want to be Edge’s husband?”

“Absolutely I do.”

“Edge, do you want to be Daddy’s husband?”

“I do, too.”

Eve nodded. “Rings!” Jordan had a blue permanent marker, and she grabbed my right hand and drew a ring on my ring finger. You chuckled as she did the same to you.

“And now you are married! Kiss!” 

You got up from your chair, held my face in your hands, and you kissed me in such a romantic and drawn-out way that the girls screamed with delight and/or disgust and hurried back to the kitchen. “I love you, Bono,” you whispered.

“I love you, Edge.”

“Mazel tov!” Morleigh called from the other side of the pool.

“You’re next,” you said with a laugh.

The girls returned with a cookie shaped like a strawberry. Eve broke it in two and gave each of us half. “Now feed it to each other, okay?” Once again we did what we were told. And even though you got frosting all over my chin, I will love you forever, Edge.

The ceremony over, I circulated among our guests. A few nearby trees and the fence surrounding the pool were decorated with solar fairy lights that began to flicker on. I was dying to know what Adam, Larry, and Ann thought of the places they had seen, and I told them once again how inspiring Eze had been for you and me, and hopefully it would be for them as well. As we talked, I noticed that you had gone indoors, and you had stayed there for more than a few minutes, so I went to look for you. I needed to change out of my still-damp shorts, in any case.

I found you in our room. Eyes closed, cross-legged on the floor, also in your shorts--you were meditating. A couple of lamps were on. I felt terrible for interrupting you, but you smiled. 

“Everything alright, love?”

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just...you know how I can get when there are lots of people.”

It is our main difference. I thrive in a situation like this. You can handle it for a while, but it drains you. “Especially after being alone for so long.”

“It’s kind of a shock to the system. I was just about to come back down. We need to show Adam and Larry the studio. And I thought you might be marginally interested in it as well.” 

“Wait, we have a studio now? Way to bury the lede, Edge!”

Pleased, you got up, walked over to me, and pressed your blue wedding ring against mine. “Let’s meet up here at 2:00 tonight.” You backed me up against the mirrors and leaned in.

“To consummate the marriage, as it were?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be here with bells on.”

You winced. “That is one of my least favorite sayings.”

“You’ve got to admit it’s a cute image, though.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I was gonna change, but now I’m kind of thinking, fuck it.”

“Yeah, who cares?”

We rounded up Larry and Adam, and you led us to our underutilized ground floor. “I’ve spent the past week putting this together,” you said modestly while opening the door to a room that was filled to the brim with so much gleaming technology it took our collective breath away.

“Oh my god, Edge.”

“Holy fucking _shit_ , Edge!” Larry yelled, taking a couple of steps inside and turning around. 

We breathed in the delicious reek of new soundproofing material on the walls and polished hardwood floors. Adam looked at the soundboard and laughed with delight. “I love the smell of a new studio, don’t you?” How does one begin to construct a studio from scratch? I don’t even understand what the top row of buttons on my laptop keyboard can do. Clearly you had done your homework here. Everything we needed was at our fingertips.

“I thought I should wait to show you this until after you had looked at homes here. I didn’t want this to sway you.”

My phone rang, but I silenced it. “Those fucks can wait,” I murmured, hugging your bare back. I wanted to climb inside your body and _be_ you. “You genius. You utter genius.”

You led us around and rattled off names of our new recording gear (all state of the art, all branded with logos and combinations of letters, numbers, and hyphens you had somehow memorized). I think we all felt the urge to play something, anything, that night and put the studio through its paces, but family obligations were calling us, too. Instead we sat at a table and talked for a bit.

“Brian is tearing out what little hair he has left over you,” Larry told me. “No offense, Edge.”

“None taken,” you said, throwing a pencil at him.

I sighed. “I know, I know. ‘I need one hundred percent of your concentration, Bono. Otherwise you’re wasting everyone’s time.’”

“You’re really not,” you said. “There are things we can do that don’t necessarily require your presence.”

“Well, that makes me feel all warm and snuggly inside, Edge.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course. I’m just the singer.”

“It’s only the boring parts, Bono. The stupid technical parts,” Adam offered with a smile. “Believe me, if I could excuse myself from that, I would do so in a heartbeat.”

“We’re a three-legged table without you. A little shaky, but it’ll stand.” Larry looked down at the table leg closest to him and shrugged.

“You’re all being incredibly charitable. Just plugging away, dutifully building a sonic platform for me to stand on. So you expect me to just glide in, improvise some lyrics right there on the spot, and then it’s off to some economic forum or whatever…?”

Adam nodded. “These extracurricular activities of yours will force you to become a one-take wonder.”

“No pressure,” I grumbled.

“Technology is on our side now, B. We can send you files with what we’ve done, and you can give us your input. We couldn’t have done this three years ago. I’m actually kind of excited about it.”

I grinned at you. “I’m excited about this studio,” I said, looking around. “You have totally transformed the place, Edge.”

You looked down at your hands, our bashful hero. “Well, when we’re here and inspiration strikes, we’ll have the means to record it. Especially now that all four of us will be here from time to time.”

Larry looked around again. “Honestly? Let’s stay here indefinitely. This place makes HQ look like a dump. Last week Brian strung about a dozen mobiles with little airplanes over the soundboard to inspire us.”

“I will never truly understand his aesthetic.” Adam said. He reached over and patted my shoulder. “I’m just glad you’ve got your voice back. That day, I think it was in February? When you sang, _I’m a man..._.”

“ _I’m a maaaaaaannnn, I’m not a child,_ I sang. I couldn’t help myself. He rewarded me with one of those smiles of his that engages his entire head.

“Yeah. That’s when I knew we were on to something.”

“Shivers,” you said, and I rubbed your knee under the table. You did indeed have goosebumps, you darling man. “I love the way the songs have been shaping up.”

“I’ve been writing more. A lot more than I usually do, and it’s been good for me. I’ve been working some things out, I guess. And in a few weeks, I’ll be around for at least a month and a half. You’ll see. Brian will have my undivided attention.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Bono, but cheers to that.” Larry raised an invisible glass.

Pre-bedtime activities were already in progress by the time we emerged from the new studio. “Two,” you reminded me as your hand slipped down my back, and we went to our separate rooms to spend some quality time with Ali and Morleigh. Eager to wash off the remnants of a day spent traveling, I took a quick but by no means three-minute shower. 

Ali was lying on her side in bed when I joined her. We lay facing each other, and I relished the novelty of spooning her from the front. I kissed her lips and stomach. “I do hope you’ve been taking it easy on your mum today, young man,” I said, and once again I was startled by the idea that I would become the father of a son very soon. And so would you.

“He was pretty active this evening,” she said, placing my hand low on her belly. “There’s his head.”

“As many times as I’ve done this, it’s always staggering,” I said, feeling him shift mere inches below her skin. Ali and I touched foreheads. “So good to be with you here, love.”

She gave me a brief, sleepy update on the girls, the house, and the neighborhood.

“And how are you, beautiful girl?”

“As magical as this time is, I am so ready to not be pregnant. I also missed seeing this face of yours.” 

“Is that a fact...anything this face of mine can do for you, baby?”

She kissed me. “I’m okay. Traveling is so exhausting now. But just talking like this is lovely. It’s been a long couple of weeks without you.”

“Sweetheart. Talk to me.”

Her fingertips were feather-light on my cheek. “I saw Bob yesterday.”

“The old man actually granted you an audience?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s always been a sucker for your pretty face.”

“I also took the girls with me. I’m not stupid.”

“They are our most effective weapon in the war against his grumpiness. How is he?”

“I’m afraid he’s lost weight. Less imposing than usual. But he makes up for it with derisive grunting and monosyllabic responses.”

“I assume he continues to refuse treatment?”

“Right.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I can’t say I blame him.”

We were quiet for a moment. “I’m writing about him, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“They seem like farewell songs. Like I’m writing them to figure out how I feel about this. And Michael. And other things.”

“Sounds pretty heavy.”

“Well, some are lighter. Last week I had a vision of you as a baby in a pram, and little me seeing you and falling in love on the spot.”

“We might as well have been babies when we met.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too, baby. Are you writing about Edge as well?”

“Yes. In the usual roundabout way.”

“Earlier today he showed me the rooms he put together for Larry and Adam. And the studio! I think you were napping. What an eye he has.”

“No man is as multitalented as Edge.”

“This is true.”

I waited a couple of beats. “...And I am gifted in my own special way.”

“Of course you are, love.” 

“Like pulling teeth…I swear to god.”

She laughed and kissed my forehead. “Is everything okay with you and Edge?”

“Morleigh says he was dealing with some jealousy issues, so that felt great. But I’m going to make a point of checking in with you and Edge every day I’m gone this fall. That’s when things will really start to ramp up for me, I’m afraid. But you and Edge will always be my top priorities.”

“You should go to him after I fall asleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine. I’ve become accustomed to sprawling, I’m afraid.”

“Darling goddess.”

She looked at me knowingly. “You probably already had something planned, right?”

“Well, yes.” She smiled, but I could tell she was fading fast. “But you won’t even know I’m gone, and I’ll be back before you wake up.”

We kissed again, and she said a drowsy little prayer, thanking God for the beauty of nature, our family and loved ones, and their safe travels that day, and she asked him to bless our baby boy. “Amen,” I whispered.

I caught a few hours of sleep, but I wasn’t all that tired due to jetlag. Clad in a towel, I crept upstairs to our bathroom to brush my teeth, and I found you in your underwear doing the same. We smiled at each other like an old married couple getting ready for bed, and then we walked upstairs and opened the door to the white room. 

A crescent moon and a sky full of stars made the walls appear to be painted an inky blue, the kind prized by artists hundreds of years ago. You pulled most of the bedding off the mattress, saying, “I should have washed these sheets before you arrived, sorry.”

“Yeah. Not like you weren’t doing five dozen other things simultaneously.” You chuckled and I continued, “The work you’ve done here is extraordinary, Edge.”

“And that’s not a word you throw around very much.”

“Hilarious. Actually I loved sleeping up here this afternoon...just luxuriating in your essence, so to speak.”

You looked me up and down. “Get over here.”

“Never enough time with you alone, Edge.” I put my arms around your neck.

“Greedy darling.”

“Sexy man.”

We fell onto the bed, and a towel was quickly relieved of its duties. I squinted at the label of your underwear before dispatching them to the floor where they joined my towel. “Comme des Garçons, Edge? I’m impressed.”

“Like boys,” you murmured, your teeth already leaving marks on my neck that would’ve been difficult to explain had I sported them at the Kennedy Compound. I started to moan, but you silenced me.

“Let’s see how quiet you can be tonight. We’re not alone in the house, you know. Nothing above a whisper.”

You know I love it when you impose an arbitrary rule on me. “Yes, Edge,” I whispered, and we continued to kiss. And didn’t you look commanding there in the dim light? Two weeks of manual labor, when you undoubtedly took on the work of three men without asking for help, looked good on you. Those sinewy arms, that dusky chest...your genius hands were all over me, reclaiming me. 

“Baby,” you sighed.

“I’m all yours.”

“You are now.” This carried the faintest note of jealousy, and it made me eager to prove my undying love for you in every way possible. I worshiped your face and neck. Two dozen ardent kisses all over your upper body (chlorine and...dark). Adoring your legs, kissing your feet, _nothing I don’t love about you, Edge, just lie back, yes, just lie back and let me take you in my mouth and make it all happen for you._

You pushed my hair back from my forehead, and I looked up at your eyes, obscured in the darkness. “Can we?”

“Yes, Edge.”

“Good.”

You rolled me onto my back and proceeded to do all of the things I just had done to you, plus a couple of others, and after you stroked and sucked and primed me for a few minutes? ten?, I was silently delirious with need. 

“I've had you every way possible,” you whispered as you penetrated me. Soft little gasp and a pause--you let yourself feel the sensation and file it away in that glorious mind of yours. Your lips at my ear and going deeper, you said, “And it's still thrilling, and I still need it, and I can't get enough.”

“Neither can I.” 

“More.”

“I love your cock,” I sighed. “I love how you fuck me.” God, Edge, I do. Last year, once we had shifted back to you being on top, you were somewhat tentative with me: maybe too empathetic and loving and gentle. But as time has passed, you’ve returned to fucking me with abandon, and it was exactly what I needed that night, and it’s what I need now.

“Don’t come until I say.” 

“Fuck.”

You took your time with me, and you made yourself slow down repeatedly when you realized I was almost there. This left me a whining, over-stimulated mess--just the way you like me--and then your hand got involved. “Alright, baby, there you go,” you whispered, your words falling over my body like raindrops, and I shuddered. “Let me see that face, that silent scream…” My neck snapped back, and my mouth gaped and devoured the air between us. You watched for a few seconds before finally surrendering...oh god, Edge, it was bliss. We didn’t make a sound beyond some heavy breathing, but if anyone had cared enough to investigate, well, the sounds of our bed scraping along the floorboards would have betrayed us.

Our mouths were cool and dry, but we kissed them back to life. “Stay with me here for one more day after everybody else leaves,” you said, half-statement, half-question.

“I will.” I kissed your blue ring. “This is supposed to be our honeymoon, after all.”

“Let’s relive our first summer here.”

“We can be heroes just for one day, Edge.”

You picked up my abandoned towel and cleaned us up as much as you could, and then, wrapped in sheets like a couple of Roman emperors, we went down to the balcony and looked out at the night sky.

You kissed my temple. “I feel bad for not asking this already. This new project of yours--it has to be stressful. How are you, love?”

I chuckled. “To quote Morleigh, ‘Half the time I feel like a fertility goddess and the other half it’s like, _What have I gotten myself into now?_ ’” We smiled and listened to the waves, and the light breeze felt like a mother’s caress. “A few nights ago, back at Hyannis Port, I stepped outside to get some air, and I wanted to feel like me again, to be honest. They really are America’s royal family, and...it’s just a lot to take in. I walked along the beach and thought about you here, and Ali at home, and I dipped my hand in the ocean the way you did a long time ago. I looked up at the stars--a night quite like this one--and I had a vision of you as an astronaut up there in the sky, living on a star with comets going by, and you were watching over me. And I couldn’t wait to be with you again.”

“You should have called me. I was missing you, too.”

“Next time I will.”

You looked at the moon. “I always wanted to be an astronaut.”

“That little idea became a lyric I’m working on now.”

“Does this astronaut do anything else?” Your arms emerged from their cotton cocoon, and you pulled me close, and once again I breathed you in. I’d absorb you if I could. 

“I dunno, Edge. But he turns me on. He always has, and he always will.”


	10. Prism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! Life was happening. Sorry about that! It won't happen again. ;)
> 
> This chapter (Edge POV) takes place in December 2000, mostly, but it skips around a bit in a way that I hope is not too confusing. His email is from August 2001. I alluded to Edge's waiting room situation in Hidden In Plain Sight, which I wrote last year. Adding italics to lyrics/poems is really hard on AO3, for some reason, and if they're wonky, I tried, you guys. I tried. Finally, Bono's gift to Edge may have made its way into the Elevation video. 
> 
> Other than that, I don't have a lot to say about this one, other than IT'S MY CHRISTMAS CHAPTER OMG! I hope you enjoy this boozy little trifle. Heavier stuff is coming up. Thanks as always to everyone who reads/comments/kudos/shares/makes my damn day. God bless us, every one.<3

_After I finish this, I’m going to join you in there, and maybe we’ll sleep together on the cot like we did last time. You need sleep, and frankly so do I. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. Your father was oblivious, and the night nurse certainly did not seem to care. I’m pretty sure she has seen it all._

_What I’ve written below was for my own waiting-room amusement as well as yours now. I wanted to take you back to a happier time, not even nine months ago. It was one of the longest nights of the year, and just like Christmas, you were the light in the darkness. You were on top of the world, and I was right there with you. At one point that night, I woke up and studied you. Slightly upturned lips decorated your sleeping face. You looked like someone who knows he is being watched and is pretending to be unconscious, but most of the time that’s the way you look when you are actually asleep._

_Well, not as much now. When you allow your eyes to close these days, you’re all chin, nose, and furrowed brow. The other night on the cot, I pushed your hair off your face and kissed your forehead near your hairline. I’ll still do that with Hollie, Arran, and Blue if I can get away with it (Sian cutely demands it before I turn off the lights). It reminds me of the way they looked when they were babies, my darling girls._

_When this is over, I’ll help you through the aftermath._

_I wonder how I’ll find you in a few minutes. Last time you were bent over in your chair, your heavy head resting on the bed near your father’s left hand, and as I coaxed you over to the cot, you murmured, “Why did we fight so much?” My bleary eyes created a prismatic halo around your exhausted face. I covered us up with the cot’s cheap blanket that had been laundered so many times it was nearly transparent. I spooned you, and sharing a pillow, we fell asleep to the sounds of softly beeping machines. We were two astronauts in a tiny capsule, adrift in the semi-darkness._

_My darling boy._

_E._

\-----

“They love us again.”

Finally safe and warm behind our closed front door, you stripped off your leather jacket and shiver-whispered those words. Were you afraid to jinx everything good that had happened since the last time we were here?

I had wanted to buy a neon sign for the villa that said “no vacancy” that balmy summer weekend--we had filmed an alternate “vacation” video for _Beautiful Day_ here, and every room in the house was occupied with crew members, family, and hangers-on. Even Danny came down.

The video shoot was nothing compared to the one we filmed at Charles de Gaulle--just a few takes of us performing in the downstairs studio and some B-roll of us goofing around. You wore black sunglasses the entire time, and they reminded me of a blindfold as I watched you sing. Once everyone had cleared out and we had the place to ourselves again, I pulled you (still waving as the last car disappeared from view) inside, removed your sunglasses, and replaced them with a black necktie while you laughed and pretended to protest. I knotted the tie at the nape of your neck. “Let’s go upstairs,” I said, assuming that after six years you might have become familiar with the layout of our house. You promptly walked into a wall, and your watch scraped off a bit of paint. “The foyer it is, then,” I laughed, pulling a chuckling you down to the floor.

Several months later in mid-December, Èze seemed like an entirely different place. We tossed our coats in a heap on a bench, and I pushed you against the same wall with the scratched paint I didn’t feel the need to touch up. “Say it one more time.”

“They love us again.”

“They love you, gorgeous.”

We had just completed a nearly two month promotional tour that took us all over Europe, America, and even Brazil, and you had led the charge. Forty years old but still the most desirable man, no, _person_ on the planet, you charmed every interviewer and studio audience member with your unique blend of flirtatiousness, cockiness, and humility, and your performances...at times it seemed like there were five of you inside that body. After a year of activism, you were positively overjoyed to perform and feed off the love radiating from those small, ecstatic crowds. Once that string of appearances ended, your internal battery was fully recharged, with all four bars a solid green. The tour, still months away, couldn’t come fast enough.

“I feel like we’ve been walking a tightrope our entire career,” you told me on our flight from New York to Nice. “Actually, no. With every new album, it’s like we’ve had to jump from one tightrope to another, higher tightrope.”

“And we haven’t fallen yet.”

“A little shaky last time, but we’re still here.”

“Number one album, number one song worldwide, and somebody’s going to address the graduates at Harvard this spring.”

“Fuck, Edge.”

“Enjoy this, Bono. We’ve earned it. Especially you.” I squeezed your hand.

“Not especially me. You fucking genius. But okay.”

“Let’s go blow off some steam for a day or two.”

“So to speak.”

There we were, in our lovely home all alone, and it smelled like cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. Cécile had bedecked several strategic rooms with garlands of evergreen and holly along with fairy lights, candles, and bowls of sweets. You stopped me from investigating the living room, saying, “I’m afraid I really must socialize you now.”

“We just got off the plane, B,” I whined. “The sun’s already setting.”

“It’s only 4:30,” you said, consulting your watch.

“One of the longest nights of the year.”

“I intend to make good use of the darkness.” Kissing my neck, you whispered, “Please? Just a little drink with the Èzeians. Èzeites? And then you can take me back here and have your way with me.”

“I’m such a pushover when it comes to you.”

“Oh! Before we leave, I want you to open your Christmas present,” you said with a diabolical grin. You began rummaging through your large bag.

I sighed. “Here we go.”

I was presented with a rather heavy item that was shrouded in a couple of pages from that morning’s New York Post. The four of us were pictured above a gossipy item that described our attendance at the _Saturday Night Live_ afterparty. Adam and Larry were talking with Val Kilmer. You and I were on either side of them and facing in opposite directions. Your smile was dazzling, and I looked vaguely cross-eyed. The press always runs photos where you look incredible while the chips fall where they may as far as the rest of us are concerned. This has been happening for over twenty years, and I’m used to it, of course. You had taken a red marker, circled our faces several times, and drawn arrows connecting us. “The sexual tension between them is PALPABLE,” you scrawled, or at least I think that’s what you wrote.

“This is so festive I may lose my mind,” I said.

“Open it!”

I could smell the new leather through the newspaper, but I was truly surprised when I saw that the gift was not a jacket but pants. Black ones. Lambskin? For me.

I winked at you. “Looks like somebody wants to take our relationship to the next level.”

“I don’t see why I have to be the only one wearing them, day in, day out.”

“It’s because you have an ass worth...encasing.” I moved to pinch it.

“Oh how you love to talk, Edge,” you said with a grin.

“How did you--”

“I know your measurements. Now off you go. Put them on.”

A small tag was attached to the inner waistband that simply said _to E from B_. Otherwise unembellished, they did indeed fit like the proverbial glove--bravo to you and/or your spies. When I zipped them up, the upper half of my body seemed to disappear as the lower half commanded my complete attention. A melting heat surrounded me, and it felt like several pairs of hands were idly stroking my legs. Etc. It’s no wonder you’ve spent the better part of two decades wearing them.

Applause. Whistling. “God _damn_ you look great in all black.”

“I don’t see why you have to be the only one wearing it, day in, day out.”

You circled me and gave me a good once-over. And a twice-over. Moving in, you grabbed the two front belt loops and pulled me close with a satisfying groan.

“Rethinking your position on going out?” I asked hopefully.

“Absolutely not. You are a rock star, Edge, and I fully intend to show you off to the locals. And besides, if I’ve learned anything from you, it’s that anticipation is the best part.”

We put our coats back on. I always feel like Èze ought to be exempt from seasonal changes, don’t you? A cool breeze slid down the hillside as we walked along the dusky beach. I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked over at you, jacket unzipped and scarf nearly dragging the ground, strutting nonchalantly. Blowing a cloud of steam from your mighty lungs, you said, “I do believe the citizens of Èze erected a triumphal arch in our honor last month.”

“Oh yeah?”

“A sculpture of you is on the left side, and I’m on the right, and along the top is a frieze of us in various sexual positions. I simply cannot wait to see it.”

“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

“Hunger note: I am hungry as fuck.”

During the off-season, Édouard’s bistro transformed into a cozy French approximation of an Irish pub, and he greeted us warmly. Several dozen locals, some of whom we actually knew, sat under golden lights at makeshift communal tables created from slid-together small ones. “Bon-oooo!” yelled one of the well-lubricated patrons I sort of recognized.

“Valenti-iiiiin!” you shouted back.

 _Who is he?_ I wondered during the ten seconds it took us to cross the room to him.

“Substitute pool guy,” you whispered to me. Of course.

We sat at a couple of empty seats across from him, and the two of you caught up via a swirl of English and French exclamations. Meanwhile I ordered some food and drinks for us and looked around, chiming in here and there when I had any kind of contribution. Édouard’s restaurant was filled with laughter and conversations in lilting French. Silverware clattered on plates, Christmas songs were being piped in from somewhere, and a few customers sang along. A couple slow-danced in the cramped space near the sea-facing windows. A few small and extended families occupied the tables, and middle-aged patrons sat at the bar.

I glanced at your face, brimming with hilarity and goodwill. Our food had arrived--pot-au-feu with heaps of crusty bread, mustard, and gherkins--along with a marvelous bottle vintage red wine. You tore into both with relish, and we shared them with Valentin, and the three of us drank a toast to 2001. (There are ways of drinking wine that won't stain a mouth, love, but you certainly have never been interested in learning any of them.)

I made eye contact with the mother of a couple of teenage girls who, if they were anything like my daughters, had entered that uncharted Christmas territory where they were young enough to care about the holiday but old enough to wonder if Christmas wasn’t cool anymore. Or maybe they were just French. They seemed bored out of their minds. Their mother looked at you with a smile, said a few words to her outraged daughters, and walked over to us.

"Excusez-moi,” she said, and you turned to face her, riveted.

“Oui mon cher,” you purred.

“Je m'appelle Camille Rousseau. Rousseau-Bernard.”

“Enchanté. Bono.”

“Edge.”

From what I was able to gather, she was Mme. Rousseau’s daughter. We were her mother’s favorite customers, and she was very happy we had a home in Èze. Camille recognized us from a drawing you had given her mother not long after we had bought the villa. Admittedly, now we resembled our old selves more than we did a few years ago.

“My drawings officially have artistic merit, as it turns out, the Edge,” you murmured to me.

“Elle t'aime,” she said sweetly before turning to leave with her girls.

“Amour de Mme Rousseau!”

You touched my knee under the table and smiled.

The group behind us began singing _Angels We Have Heard on High_ in French, and you could not resist joining in the _Gloria, in excelsis Deo_ refrain. You unleashed your soaring tenor, and every head turned. For a moment I was transported to dozens of sweaty gigs in not-quite-clubs-not-quite-arenas nearly twenty years ago. Encouraging applause broke out, and you stood and sang the first verse (the only verse you knew) in English:

 _Angels we have heard on high_  
_Sweetly singing o'er the plains_  
_And the mountains in reply_  
_Echoing their joyous strains_

And the crowd (and I) joined you in a string of Glorias. Flushed, you raised your glass in a happy salute and sank back down in your seat. I kissed your cheek.

“Edge, you’re being awfully forward.”

“I’m merely a proxy for everyone else in this room, B.”

You beamed at me, somehow still 22 years old.

Some of your other admirers stopped by our table to wish you a happy Christmas, and you held court until our bottle was empty, kissing hands, introducing me as “...my Edge,” pointing in the general direction of our home, and occasionally singing scraps of carols. And convincing me to join you. Our hands were becoming a bit sloppy.

My eyes strayed to the hair on your forearms and chest, and I imagined the lines my tongue would leave in its wake, those hairs slicked down like tall grass on the banks of a swollen, flooded creek. I wanted you.

I excused myself to wash my hands, and after doing so I rolled up my sleeves. I walked back to our table and stood in front of you with my arms crossed, and apparently that was all I needed to do. You gazed at me with lust in your dilated eyes. I know a few tricks, too, B.

We put our coats on and said our goodbyes. Once outside, I led you behind the restaurant and stared at you in the moonlight. You stared back: blue eyes, black hair, red lips. I took your chin in my hand, tipping it up and feeling the exquisite bone structure beneath the pale, not-so-recently shaved skin.

“God, you’re magnificent,” you moaned.

“You’re enchanting forever.”

We kissed, long and deep. The tannins from the wine created a tantalizing friction as my tongue slid along yours. Moaning, we pulled apart, and I imagined our steamy exhalations freezing and becoming snowflakes. “Lover,” you whispered.

“Baby.”

And it was time to go home.

The beach was dark in spots, and while you treasure any opportunity to mock my fondness for gadgets, that night you saw the value in having a small flashlight on a keychain. In fact, you snatched it away and shined it on my face while pacing around me. As always, I pretended to ignore this.

“I can’t wait to sing the new songs with you.”

I spotted a shell that Blue would like and picked it up. “The acoustic set will be really special, I think.”

“Our faces inches apart, singing love songs to each other.” You took my hand.

“On the tip of a heart, no less.”

“We’ll be dialing down the camp. But I think we’ll be dialing up the intimacy.”

“The love.”

“The undeniable love.” You kissed my neck. “Stop for a second.” You stepped behind me, turned around so we were facing in opposite directions, and leaned against me. Your shoulder blades bumped against mine, and the back of your head rested on my shoulders. “We have to do this.”

“Make the beast with two chests?”

“It’s presumably out of bounds for two heterosexual men to do it, yes?” You tilted your head back as far as you could and attempted to confirm this via fleeting eye contact.

I slid a finger down your neck. “It’s definitely questionable. I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone else do it.”

“Wonderful. There have to be other ways to walk that line. Let’s make people uncomfortable; I don’t give a shit! Maybe Morleigh will have some ideas.”

I chuckled. “Actually she had some thoughts about _Until the End of the World_.” We were almost home, and our living room lights created a diffused, golden glow on the beach.

“Do tell.”

“This woman...she thinks we need to top what we did last time. Make it more about what the lyrics are saying. She wants you to try to kiss me.”

“I’m Judas, and you’re Jesus.”

“Right.”

“Well, I want you to be a tough Jesus. Knock me down. Get me on my back.”

It didn’t exactly track biblically, but I played along. “I could stab you with my guitar.”

“You could fuck me with your guitar.”

“Meanwhile you’re down there writhing around and making those...faces of yours.” No, it didn’t track at all.

“Let’s do it. Right here, right now.” You backed up a few yards and began stalking me, and you reminded me of a cartoon bull stamping and huffing and blowing steam from its nose. Bull and matador, Judas and Jesus, you and me. I strapped on an air guitar, and we circled each other, our eyes locked. “You’re playing that first gorgeous solo, but I can’t let them forget me, not even for one second.” The circle shrank.

“Sexy little attention whore.” I pretend-stabbed at you and ducked when your hand swiped at my neck.

“You’re fucking mine, Edge.” Your boxer’s instinct faked me out, and your hand clung to my neck. You drew me in, and forehead grinding against forehead, we stared each other down.

“Maybe so, but I’m the one who fucks you,” I said evenly.

“Oh, fuck _you_.” You kissed me with greed and passion, as if you wanted to absorb me.

“Does Judas say that in Matthew? Or was it Luke…’

You laughed and backed off, your fingers making “come and get me” gestures. Once again I play-stabbed at you. Moaning, you rolled onto your back and kicked some pebbles at me. So I did it some more, admiring your shadowy but ecstatic face, the face of a saint seeing God at last. Over my shoulder: the faint sound of bells.

I felt a stinging pain on my left leg as fifteen pounds of a caterwauling Peach Boy attacked it.

“Peach Boy, my love! Look Edge, he’s trying to defend me,” you said, dissolving into fits of laughter.

I gently pulled him off. His collar was decorated with jingle bells. “I’m afraid he may have left a few scratches on these pants.”

Picking up your hero and kissing the top of his head, you said, “They’ll just make you look that much sexier.” You passed Peach Boy to me, and I cuddled him a bit. “This cat’s gonna steal the show if we’re not careful, Edge.”

He scurried away, and we went inside. You helped yourself to some red-flavored candy that was on the coffee table, and I located my gift for you.

“I was wondering when I’d get my present,” you said, snatching the package from my hands. “And I see you had it professionally wrapped. Class act all the way, Edge.” You plucked the decorative poinsettia from the bow’s center and tucked it behind your ear.

“The woman at the counter assumed it was for my wife and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Wife, eh? Intriguing.” You eyed me knowingly, sat down on the couch, and opened the box. I joined you. “It’s black and it’s soft. Silk?”

“A silk bathrobe.”

You pulled it out of the box and examined it. “Like fuck it’s a bathrobe. This is a bonafide dressing gown.”

“Whatever it is, I want you in it.”

You checked the label. “La Perla is for girls, Reg.”

“I don’t care.”

You batted your lashes. “Well I happen to love that it is.”

I folded my arms. “Put it on. Just this and nothing else.”

“Your wish is my command.”

I smiled and kissed your cheek. “You bet it is. Happy Christmas.”

You took it to one of the bedrooms, and while I waited for you to come back, I turned on the lights in the kitchen. A small and fancy yule log cake was on a domed stand, and it was decorated with marzipan mushrooms and pine cones, a nest with two little eggs, and glacé cherries with holly leaves.

“Cécile is so good to us,” you said, walking in. The robe/gown had been loosely tied around your waist and revealed a fair amount of your chest.

“You look positively decadent,” I said, plucking one of those cherry abominations from the cake and placing it in your red, open mouth. You are the only person I know--possibly the only person walking the earth--who actively craves them.

“This thing feels…” You paused to exhale. “Spectacularly perverse.”

“Excellent.” A card was under the cake stand, and I handed it to you. “Wanna translate?”

“It’s from Cécile. _My dear boys. The lovely Colette Rousseau made this for you._ Her name is Colette! _She and I are friends._ How about that? _When I told her I was preparing your house for Christmas, she insisted that she create a buche de noel for the two of you. We love you both very much and wish you and your families a happy Christmas._ Edge? We need to do something for them.”

“I agree.”

“We certainly have the means to ensure that they’ll be taken care of for the rest of their lives.”

I touched your cheek. “Our accountants will think they’re our mistresses.”

“I’m sure those lads would enjoy engaging in some lip-smacking innuendo regarding us.” We kissed, and your hands found their way into my back pockets. “You know, beyond the blatant love affair they’ve chosen to ignore for almost ten years.”

I chuckled. “I loved listening to you sing tonight.”

Gazing at the ceiling, you said, “It felt like the most natural thing in the world. If days go by and I can’t sing, I don’t know what to do with myself.” You took my hand and moved it under your robe.

“Just like me when I can't play.” I did the same thing with your hand. Our conversation enjoyed a significant lull, and then you had an idea.

“The night is still young. Let’s go downstairs and sing.” Your face lit up. “I know: Christmas songs.”

“That’s why I built the studio. So we could record our drunken Christmas album, at long last.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not even close to being drunk.” (You were kind of close to being ever so slightly drunk.) “But I am exceedingly happy and relaxed, though.”

“I’m certainly feeling no pain.”

“Perfect. Let’s have some fun. _Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..._ Do you know that one?” 

“I think I can wing it.”

You took my hand, grabbed a plate of gingerbread men, and led me to the still-sort-of-new studio, with its gleaming equipment and instruments begging to be played. Since we’d just be fooling around, I set things up to record everything as-is without stopping. Nothing fancy.

You perched your silky black self on a stool in front of a microphone, and I settled in beside you with an old Gibson. I was still getting used to the leather pants, but by then they had molded themselves to fit my body, and as an added bonus, their texture held the guitar on my right leg a bit more securely than denim. You nodded at me with approval. “Yet another example of you looking better than me in one of my trademark items, damn it all to hell,” you said with a grin and a mouth full of gingerbread. I scoffed, and we were off and running.

I began playing the gentle, meandering cords of _The Christmas Song_ by Nat King Cole, and you sang the first verse in the exact opposite manner of Nat King Cole, with your voice loud and tinged with irony. I could almost see the red horns sprouting from your pretty head. Of course you felt the need to adapt the lyrics.

 _Tiny Edge with his eyes all aglow_  
_Will find it hard to sleep tonight_  
Heh, he certainly will.  
_He knows that Bono’s on his way_  
_He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh_  
_And every mother’s child is gonna spy_  
_To see if Edge is still in love with this guy._  
Kiss me, Reg.  
_And so I’m offering this simple phrase_  
_To kids from one to ninety-two_  
_Although it’s been said many times, many ways_  
_Merry Christmas, U2_

I applauded you, and still seated, you bowed extravagantly. The left side of your robe dropped down, exposing your shoulder, and you did nothing to correct it.

“What else do I know...okay. Yes. I believe this one starts out in A, love.”

_And so this is Christmas, and what have you done?_  
_Another year over, and a new one just begun_

I got lost in the similarities between your voice and John Lennon’s, and for a second I remembered how heartbroken you were when he died. We stayed up all night listening to his records, and I tried to soothe you. I was very sad as well, but it was as if you had lost a father figure.

And now your actual father was beginning to fade. Were you thinking about this? Of course you were. You think about everything. You were barely out of your teens when John Lennon died. My god, he would have loved you…

I opened my eyes and saw mischief in your smile as you ad-libbed the following:

 _A very merry Christmas_  
_From our posh house in Èze_  
_The Edge wants to fuck me_  
_Well, that’s what he says_

I shook my head, and you cackled. “Please join me, Yoko.”

 _Foreplay’s over_  
_If Edge wants it_  
_Foreplay’s over_  
_Now..._

We sang that refrain a stupid number of times, giggling and behaving in ways that were completely unprofessional. Breathless, you announced, “I’ve changed my mind. It’s just gonna be a single with a B-side. We’re done, love. And anyway, I have another surprise for you upstairs.”

“I'll bet you do.”

I got up and turned things off, and we climbed the stairs to the white room. Cécile had spent some time in there as well. A small white tree was festooned with decorated sugar cookies (and a card that said “Yes, he can eat them”) along with glass icicles that refracted the tree’s small white lights into tiny rainbows on the walls and ceiling. Additional lights outlined the windows and...were draped across a new white piano sitting in the corner.

“How did you--”

“Don’t ask questions, Edge,” you said, striking a single B note, which may have been intentional.

“Amazing...God, I love you.”

We kissed and fell into bed, and in the gentle, dim light, you resembled your alter ego from two tours ago: the same hair, the same lips, the same astonishing eyes...you were the demented lovechild of Elizabeth Taylor and Liberace once again.

“You know who you remind me of tonight, don’t you?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea.” And there was the voice.

“Remember when we concocted a backstory for him and me?”

“You--take that off, please--you, Adam, and Larry were my backing band.” You stroked your cheekbone and jaw. “Just some young session players I recruited in Las Vegas. And all of you were wearing uniforms of my design. Oh, that's wonderful.”

“Amazing what we got away with.”

Sinking down and addressing my chest, you said, “I could have had either of the blondes, but Larry doesn’t strike me as a whole lot of fun in bed, what do you think? And Adam would’ve been too easy.”

“Gentlemen prefer blondes, though.”

You looked up. “I’m no gentleman, Edge. And then there was you. Dark, aloof, cerebral...a challenging conquest.”

“Some conquest I was. You had me on the first night.” I stroked your hair.

“You didn’t even last a limo ride, did you? Tore right into me. ‘I love to fuck you.’”

“‘I really can’t hear that kind of monosyllabic praise enough, darling.’ Our faces were pink…”

You grinned. “The red and the white! All over my face, on your collar and beard, and your hands.”

“Everyone just rolled their eyes at us. Like, of course. These two…”

“Always worth it.” We kissed for a while--you tasted like Christmas--and the weight of your body on mine made me sigh with pleasure. I got started on your neck.

“You were fearless then, and you’re going to be fearless again, except in kind of the opposite way,” I murmured.

“No mask this time. Just me, flaws and all.”

“You’re flawless, as far as I’m concerned. And I’ll find it impossible to restrain myself in the limo after the first show, I’m sure. So fair warning.”

Caressing my forehead and eyebrows, you said, “You’ll need to be fearless, too, Edge. Eye contact. Smiling. Connection. You will give that love back to me.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Let’s practice.” We settled on the bed so we were facing each other. I took your hand, and you positioned them between our mouths like a microphone. Your voice soft and low, you said, “We’re singing to each other, love. Look at me.” You sang the first verse of _In a Little While._ Enthralled, I kissed one of your knuckles and gazed into your eyes. “That’s it. Stay like that.”

_It never gets old. How can it be?_

You were hard against my leg. “Now sing _Slow down my beating heart_. I’ve half a mind to make you finish the song, you know.”

I sang the song’s coda, maintaining eye contact for as long as I could. You smiled at me with such admiration and tenderness that I had to look down at our hands. You sank down a bit, nibbled on my wrist, and we locked eyes once again. “That was beautiful, Edge.”

What would my younger self have made of you? If you were my teacher, I would have fallen in love with you on the spot. So encouraging, so loving, so unspeakably beautiful.

You sucked one of my fingers--god, you have always known what to do to me--and your free hand drifted down to my pants, which were becoming more than a bit uncomfortable. “I’ve got to do something before--”

“Of course, love.”

I nearly gasped with relief once they were off. It was as if my lower body could finally breathe again, and everything the leather covered seemed hypersensitive and alive.

“Taking them off is half the fun, isn’t it?”

“I should say so.”

You smiled up at me, and somehow that robe you were wearing made you seem shockingly naked. Your feminine side has never been a pose. You were radiant with joy and vulnerability. I’ve spent untold hours trying to memorize your beauty, but I might as well try to commit a diamond to memory. One little shift and a new luminous sparkle emerges.

I draped the pants over the back of a chair and returned to the bed. I felt a fleeting and very mild jealousy at your perfection and your luck in getting to be...you, an object of such intense desire. But then your tongue was in my mouth, and my cock was in your hand, and those feelings melted into a helpless, all-encompassing love.

“Take me,” you whispered.

“You take me as much as I take you.”

_I don’t feel entirely comfortable writing about sex here in the waiting room, B. Every little noise--and there are many in this hospital--makes me paranoid that someone will walk right over here and start reading over my shoulder. We didn’t even do all that much that night--we just used our hands on each other while holding (and kissing, and sucking) our microphone, but my god it was almost painfully erotic to look into your eyes, watch you come, and see your expression of pleasure when I did the same. We were face to face as equals, as two boys in the back of a van, as two men in a bed four floors above the sea, as two lovers who need each other desperately, as two singers sharing a microphone._

_You have been so courageous this year. You know I watch you pacing in the dressing room during those moments before we go on. Process-blue plastic shields and amplifies your eyes, and your leather surrounds your body like a sort of armor, protecting and disguising the agitated knight within._

_Dallas hands me my in-ear receivers--I know I need to protect my hearing and monitor what we are doing, but sometimes I just want to hear the real us and the actual roar of the crowd. Every night we begin with the same loud, sort of dumb song, and we stare down the mass of humanity bubbling away like a pot on a stove in front of us. Thousands of eyes bear down on us, and you would deliver all of the new songs to them at the same time if you could. Then we bring the noise to a screeching halt and take them off the burner. You quietly beg them to lift you “out of these blues,” and every brightly-lit face softens for about ten seconds before we slide them back on the heat and they return to the boil._

_I don't look at the spotlights the same way I don't look at the sun. But sometimes I am tempted. I look at you instead, and I am blinded by your brilliance. You absorb the crowd’s adoration, process it, and send it back to them, creating a feedback loop of intensifying love. I’d say you were like a reflector, but no, you change and bend the light. I’ve stood inside that light. I’ve felt it burn my skin until I give in to it. Surrender to it. Become part of it at the tip of the heart._

It snowed overnight--unusual for Èze, but it was just an inch or so. We woke up a couple of times that next morning and went back to sleep. I finally got out of bed when I realized you were already up. The sun had risen, and the room was blindingly white. Frost had created sparkling, fernlike designs on the windows. I heard the faint thud of a snowball on the south window. I walked over, opened it, shivered, and looked down at you on the second floor balcony. You were wearing my long wool coat, my shoes, and not much else. You had stolen my beanie as well. Having exhausted your supply of sun-warmed, packable snow, you scooped up a handful of snow from the shadows and threw it at me. The snow fell apart into a thousand prismatic particles that sifted down onto your beaming, laughing face.

My darling boy.


	11. Ecru

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I have decided to devote two chapters to a single character's writing. This one was originally going to be much longer and combine what you're about to read with what will come next. But that would have resulted in a 10,000 word chapter, and I just couldn't do that to myself or to you. :)
> 
> So. It's Edge and Morleigh's wedding day! Written from Bono's point of view. In it, he explains this dubious fashion choice:  
> http://photo.media.hollywood.com/full/3/9/6/39630.jpg
> 
> Also, Bono lovingly mocks Edge's prolific fertility several times. One of them is a favorite line from Ghost World.
> 
> The NME quote was a real thing that happened! I like to think I'm telling that story, NME. 
> 
> Thanks to all who continue to read this! I returned to writing U2 fanfic two years ago this month, and I am so glad I did. Love to Bedge and love to you.

_Edge, I had planned to write about last year--the final months of the tour, our over-scheduled weeks that followed, and the Easter breakdown you helped me through...but it looks like I had a lot to say about the other day, way more than the handful of paragraphs had I intended to write. It’s for the best; I shouldn’t corrupt your time in Venice with anything dark. But I owe you a story about last year. I’m already working on it, and I can’t wait for you to return. My hero. My love._

B.

\-----

You looked so handsome I wanted to scream. 

Gazing out the white room’s north windows toward Eze’s hilltop, you were in an immaculate cream--or was it ecru?--I’m gonna call it an _ecru_ linen suit, black shirt, shoes, and beanie. (And as your best man, I will derive a great deal of satisfaction from pummeling anyone who sees fit to call you out for wearing what has become your personal style trademark; honestly _fuck_ them.)

Meanwhile, I was sweating already, and we hadn’t even left the house.

You turned around and looked me over. Backlit by the blinding early afternoon sunlight, you resembled...the mythical being you actually are. “That’s a...fun look,” you said with a grin.

“Oh, fuck you. And fuck you for getting married on the hottest day of the year in a goddamn cactus garden, no less.” I placed a couple of off-white rose boutonnieres, still cool from the refrigerator in their plastic container, on the table.

My post-post-tour weight fluctuations were to blame for me having to purchase a last minute, off-the-rack suit in a gray summer-weight wool (which...bullshit). Trousers too long, sleeves too long: I resembled David Byrne in _Stop Making Sense._ Ali forced me to swap my beyond-reproach white shirt for that offbeat mint number because the former had become stained with strawberry juice about an hour earlier.

Your fourth daughter (Christ, Edge, have a few more kids, why don’t you?) was standing on her tip-toes on the balcony and watching Ali and my laughing boys walk along the shore. The thoughtful tilt of her head reminded me of you. 

“Sian?”

Startled from her reverie, she made eye contact with me and wiped a tear from her cheek. 

“Hey, c’mere darlin’,” I said, and your little dark-haired doll hugged my leg. “What’s wrong?”

“Everybody is happy, but I’m sad.”

“Would a strawberry make you feel better?” I sat on a bench and patted the space beside me. I had found the Mme Rousseau-sourced strawberries on the kitchen counter alongside a note in your handwriting that read, “Especially for Bono.” This made me feel even more like a younger sibling who has been given a consolation gift at a birthday party. Nevertheless, I was snacking on them, and they were stupendous.

“Maybe.” She selected one and smiled at it.

“Now what’s this all about, love?”

“Daddy just came home, but he’s going away again. And now Mommy is, too.”

“They’ll only be gone for a few days, sweetheart. And it will be years before we go away for a long time. I don’t even know what I’m going to sing about.” (Except I do, Edge.) “Ali and I will look after you, and we’ll have so much fun. I promise.”

“Jo-Jo and Evie will play with me?”

“They positively cannot wait. They are going draw some pictures with me, and I’d love it if you would help us.”

“Pictures of what?”

“A boy and a wolf. And a cat, too!”

Sian whispered, “Meow.”

“Can you believe how yummy these are?”

“I love strawberries.” 

“And I love your necklace.”

We threw our stems over the balcony. “Still gonna miss them. I wish I could go.”

“I will miss them, too,” I said, gesturing with another berry. “I love your daddy the same way your mommy loves him.”

She considered this. “Are you sad?”

A yacht so big it bordered on grotesque came into view, and I pointed at it. “I want him to be happy, and sometimes you have to share.” She nodded knowingly. “Do you know why I’m the best man?”

“You’re the man he loves the most.”

“Well, do you know what else?” I leaned over and lowered my voice. “Last night he told me that you’re the best girl. You can’t tell anyone. You don’t want to make them jealous. But you’re the secret best girl.”

She took another strawberry and giggled. “Mommy said you are the king of his heart, and she is the queen.”

“That must make you the beautiful princess. And little Levi is the prince.” Sian touched one of my many laugh lines, got up, and twirled. Her darling linen dress swirled around her. Oh Edge, she is the perfect combination of you and Morleigh...the first of her kind. I applauded, and in doing so I stained my shirt somehow. “Oh no,” I said, pointing at it. 

“You’re still the handsome king.” I pushed her bangs off her forehead and kissed her hairline. 

“Daddy does that! How did you know?”

“He tells me everything, love, and he kisses me there too sometimes.”

Anyway, that was the story behind my tragic, mint-colored shirt. “I’m not tucking it in, either,” I informed you.

“No one’s asking you to.” You took me in your arms and kissed me.

I admired your suit. You were achingly sublime. “I was supposed to help you get ready, but you’ve done my work for me.”

“I can undress and you can put me back together again if you like.”

“No. You’re perfect. We are supposed to pin those on, however,” I said, pointing at the roses. I also straightened your tie although it did not require straightening. “I’m gonna keep doing this every chance I get, I’ve decided.”

“Too bad I wear ties maybe twice a year.”

“I’ll take what I can get, Edge.”

You pulled me closer. “You most certainly will take it.”

“Oh yes.”

Another kiss, hot and slow...your goatee had grown beyond the threshold of stubble and felt more soft than rough. I felt a pang of lust and wanted you all to myself for the remainder of the weekend. My hand drifted down to make sure you knew this. “Baby,” you whispered.

I reached over and picked up the flowers. “You do me and I’ll do you.”

“My favorite.”

I pinned the rose over your heart with a medium amount of difficulty, and you were having trouble with mine. I noticed that your hands were uncharacteristically shaky.

“Are you nervous?”

“It’s the good kind of nervous.” You exhaled, finished your work, and admired it. Small but potent, the flowers’ scent enveloped us, and I had flashbacks to a handful of dances Ali forced me to attend when we were still in school.

Kissing your ear, I whispered, “I have a little something in my pocket for you, love.”

“I’ll bet you do.” I took your hand on a leisurely tour of my pelvis and deposited it in my left-front pocket. “What’s this?” you asked, pulling out a small gold pin.

I had been waiting a full three months for this moment of gift-giving triumph. “That is a lover’s eye, the Edge.”

You studied the miniature painting on the front of the pin. “It’s your eye.”

“Hence the name.”

“How did you--”

“I was on the internet searching for gifts for lovers, fell down a rabbit hole, and ended up reading about these. Apparently they were popular gifts during the late 18th Century. Clandestine lovers would exchange them and pin them inside their clothing over their hearts or wrists or even elsewhere. Or they’d wear them on the outside knowing that no one would really be able to tell whose eyes were depicted.”

“You have some pretty recognizable eyes.”

“Well, maybe we could camouflage it.” I pinned my little eye behind the greenery surrounding your rose, and it peeked through the leaves. “Good.”

“I love it. Very sexy idea, B.” 

“You’re mine, too.”

“Absolutely I am.”

“Just a little reminder.” My lips brushed your rose, and you stroked my hair. You moved behind me, bent my head forward, and kissed the nape of my neck, hard enough to leave a mark that my hair covered. We studied each other in the mirror. 

You exhaled. “How are you doing, my darling?”

“I want you to stay here and fuck me all weekend.”

“God, you turn me on, B.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

You turned me around and held my face in your hands...light green eyes like the first tentative leaves of spring. “What we have is beyond love.”

“Beyond love.”

Last year before the tour had even started, NME said the looks you and I exchange onstage are “the greatest love story never told.” I remember celebrating that particular line with you in our state room overlooking London’s West End. I remember celebrating that particular line with you all night long. During that first leg, I made a point of watching playbacks of our performances, and our interactions were almost disturbingly homoerotic, and Jesus Christ they turned me on. (They still do; thank you once again for creating that DVD of our greatest hits for me.)

It seemed so right to travel with you and to be _us_ again in our most unadulterated form. The tour was universally praised, but it took a lot out of me. Even those pre-9/11 shows were emotional motherfuckers. Pure joy, pure soul...and our love was the white-hot center of it all. The third iteration of our band was forged in the crucible of those early Elevation concerts, with songs that alternately saw you establishing your sexual dominance or me making you blush. We would run downstairs before the encores and whisper a few words directly into each other’s ears because somebody could never completely trust that a mic was not hot.

“Wanna fuck you on the floor.”

“Need you in my mouth.”

Our crew went to work on us while we stared each other down. I was the preening peacock of an emperor whose attendants undressed, dressed, and groomed him. You were my favored gladiator, and your trainer stretched and pulled your gifted arms for my amusement. When it was time to return to the stage, I’d give you an innocent-seeming thumbs up that nevertheless spoke to my fleeting gladiator kink.

Seriously, though, those shows took us to some dark, emotionally-charged places that left me an exhausted husk of the person I was two hours prior. They weren’t easy on you either, and what we’d do afterward was unpredictable. Some nights were so punishing we’d simply collapse into each other. But our best nights resulted in the most tender, erotic, and dazed lovemaking, a stoned coda at the end of a very long song. And you made me know with absolute certainty that I belonged to you. 

Oh Edge.

I miss those nights.

My love.

I think what I’ll remember most about the wedding was your beaming face whenever you looked at the radiant Morleigh...or me. The two of you were more beautiful than ever. Wilting in the obscene heat, I stood beside you, and you took my hand (Edge, I was _touched_ ). Together we watched her walk toward us, surrounded by those strange and wonderful plants you both love. The scent of their blooms, combined with the sea air on that first weekend of summer, was truly intoxicating. I passed my (otherwise useless) pocket square to Morleigh’s dear grandmother, who was weeping softly near me.

Morleigh noticed your pin right away and winked at me. She kissed my cheek and whispered, “It’s something blue.” The interfaith wedding ceremony was every bit as romantic and lighthearted as I thought it would be. Little children interrupted with urgent questions, and guests fanned themselves beneath those Japanese parasols you thoughtfully provided. A butterfly landed on my shoulder and stayed there for a remarkable amount of time. Your vows were typically quirky and, if one really thought about them, open to interpretation regarding one or two key items. 

Anton took a series of photos of you, Morleigh, and the children with admirable speed, and we walked en masse down the hill to the beach and back home. It was delightfully old fashioned, and I could feel the temperature drop a bit as we descended. You and Morleigh led the way, and you glanced back at Ali and me from time to time. Eve and Jordan held our boys’ hands and provided a nonstop color commentary on the afternoon’s proceedings. I was busy cursing the sun and vowing to abandon that suit the second I set foot inside the house when Hollie caught up with me. “I hope you’re not sad,” she said quietly, her aquamarine eyes wide with compassion. “I’m afraid we begged them to do it.”

“My dear, there’s absolutely no reason--”

“He loves you so much.” Almost as stunning as you were in ecru and standing an entire head taller than me (when did that happen?), she took my arm. We walked down the dusty path, stopping occasionally so she could kick the odd pebble out of her sandals. The sandals had heels. That explains it.

“Please, love, do not worry about me at all.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. It’s better this way. There’s an enjoyable symmetry now.” 

“The three of us…” She trailed off; I assumed she was referring to the Elder Edge Children Collective. “We were worried about Sian and Levi.”

“Why is that?”

“Arran and Blue took them to the park one day, and this neighbor kid they know said Dad and Morleigh weren’t real parents because they weren’t married.”

“Oh dear.”

“I guess maybe his parents had told him that? So they yelled at him, but we didn’t want Sian and Levi to have to deal with that when they start going to school, right? Because they’re both so quiet and sweet. So we asked them to get married even though everything was fine and marriage is kinda...bullshit,” she said, half bashful and half proud to be talking to me, almost-grownup to almost-grownup. “But I don’t want you to feel bad because...you know.”

“I think Sian and Levi are very fortunate to have a big sister like you looking out for them. I wish you would’ve been my sister.”

“Aww.”

“And that’s a good point about having to deal with other kids. I wouldn’t have thought that was a problem in this day and age.” She looked away, but I could tell she was pleased and relieved. “You are the first of all our children, and I think you’re just extraordinary, you know.”

She gave my arm a squeeze. “I love you...B.”

“And I love you...H.”

Things became very casual very quickly once we returned to the house, and my horrid suit and shirt were languishing in a heap next to Ali’s suitcases by the time the last handful of stragglers had made it down the hill. Finally wearing something comfortable and black, I walked by your room, from which certain unmistakeable sounds could be heard. “You’re wasting no time,” I almost yelled at the door before reconsidering. I certainly hope you’re using protection these days, you goddamn bull.

Ali--glorious in that colorful silk dress of hers--was in panic mode when I joined her downstairs. The reception’s vibe was a little too informal for her taste, and she was trying to wrangle children, locate alcohol, set food on tables, and figure out the stereo all at the same time. I came to her rescue (“delegate, darling”) and beckoned a half dozen people to my side, all of whom were happy to have something to do. 

You and Morleigh were all smiles as you joined the party, she in an indescribable white ensemble only a dancer could get away with, and you in one of _my_ straw cowboy hats, jeans that were tight enough for me to see the outline of a certain pin in one of the pockets, and...oh god, Edge. A taut white t-shirt that was so thin I could make out dark hair patterns and other anatomical delights beneath its surface. Why do you insist on torturing me? I resisted the urge to rip it to shreds. “Mazel tov!” I shouted as the two of you approached me.

Morleigh wrapped me in a sweet embrace--I smelled you on her neck. “I’m kissing the bride,” I announced before attempting to do so, only to be thwarted by her giddy laughter. “I’m kissing the groom, then,” I said, pulling you over to us, and my advances were eagerly received. I was too busy sucking on your lower lip and enjoying your tiny moan to see if any of Morleigh’s relatives were scandalized by our brazen display of affection. But I’m sure they would have been able to explain it away. It’s not just a European thing; it’s also a band thing.

And then the drinking began in earnest. Did you enjoy my toast, love? I loaded it with so many in-jokes I think you were the only one who truly understood it. I appreciated your applause and your flushed cheeks.

Things began to wind down after the sun set. Children needed to be put to bed, and you and Morleigh had to prepare for your honeymoon. Ali and I were dancing to whatever slow groove Adam had decided to play on the stereo by the pool when you tapped me on the shoulder. “Please, both of you,” you said, and we followed you and Morleigh to the walled garden. I had draped some fairy lights haphazardly along one of its borders thinking that guests might find their way down there. By then it was too dark to see very much in the blue and purple shadows, although I felt our little orange friend bump his forehead against my shin and curl his tail around my leg.

“Thank you. Thank you both,” you said, and we hugged each other. I spun Morleigh around and we danced for a bit, and you and Ali followed suit. I assumed all four of us were having the same thought: _I am so happy he has you._ We moved closer together until we had formed a sort of cluster--some strange element with you and me in the center forming the nucleus. We were bonded together and to Ali and Morleigh. You kissed me, and Ali kissed my cheek, and Morleigh kissed yours. As complicated as it might have seemed to any outsider, it made sense to us, and it felt right. We are beyond love.

Much later, after you and Morleigh had dashed out to your car while being pelted with rose petals, after the last guest had boarded the final train to Nice or settled in one of our rooms, after every glass had been returned to the kitchen, and after all cake remnants had been taken care of (no need to thank me), Ali and I retired to our room and fell asleep almost immediately. About an hour later, my phone beeped with a message from you and Morleigh, safe in Venice.

Oddly restless, I spent some time trying to fall asleep again, but I couldn’t shut my mind off, and eventually Ali grew weary of my movements. 

“Can’t sleep, baby.”

“Obviously.”

“Let’s do something.” I caressed her shoulder.

She exhaled. “Maybe in the morning? I’m just--”

“No, not that, although I will take you up on your offer later if it still stands.”

“Oh, I have a feeling it’ll stand.”

“Ha.”

“Like, when has it _not_ stood?”

I was forced to tickle her until she stifled a scream. “Here's an idea: let’s get in the pool.”

“Now? Why?” she protested.

“Because we’re just a couple of crazy kids, and it will be romantic.”

“Naked?”

“I don’t see why not. Everyone’s asleep. We won’t turn on any lights. C’mon, let’s have some fun.”

And that is how my wife of almost twenty years and I found ourselves holding hands, floating on our backs, and staring up at the nearly-full moon. Perhaps you and Morleigh were looking up at it as well. The darkness and the warm water made me imagine I was floating among the stars, and her arm was the tether that kept me connected to the space station.

“How are you doing?” she whispered, breaking the silence.

“Quite a day. Christ, quite a year.”

“Last year at this time, Bob…” She squeezed my hand.

“Yeah. He was fading. And you and Edge carried me out of that, love.”

“A few phone calls may have taken place behind your back.”

An inflatable swan brushed against my shoulder. “I wish I weren’t so needy all the time.”

“I’m afraid you’re just one of those front-burner people.”

“You should put a lid on me and walk away.”

“So you can boil over and mess up my nice stove? Not a chance, baby.”

The water shifted us so our feet pointed east, as if we were the needle of a giant compass that was trained on you. “I do miss Edge. It’s strange to be here without him.”

“He adores you. It was written all over his face today.”

“Of the four of us, he’s probably the one who values solitude the most, and yet he has to deal with two people who are in love with him.”

“And something like fifteen children.”

“Indeed.” 

She was quiet for a while, and then she said, “If you truly love someone, their presence in your life won’t feel like an intrusion. Being with them should feel the same as being alone. Possibly even better.” I could hear the wink in her voice.

“I love you, Ali. I always will.” We floated silently. My eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and I took in the glistening body floating beside me--my timeless blue goddess outlined with black and white. She tipped her head back and sank beneath the water’s surface. Then, wading, she put one arm around my neck and the other near the small of my back, and she held me the way one might support a child who is learning how to float. The past few years have been stamping their feet all over my body, but she doesn’t seem to care. She leaned over me, her hair dripping onto my face, and we kissed.

She looked at me with those bottomless eyes of hers and said with a smile, “Let’s do something, love.”

Incidentally, Edge, we are the luckiest men on the planet.

Even so, insomnia refused to loosen its grip on me. After Ali had returned to dreamland, I decided to look in on John, Eli, Levi, and Sian, all fast asleep in their beds. A moon-shaped night light created soft violet shadows on the walls of the nursery. The innocent beauty of these little ones took my breath away. _Edge, they are our youngest children,_ I thought rather obviously and wished you were with me to watch them. _We’ll be eighty when they’re our age…_

Sian rolled over, and her stuffed rabbit tumbled onto the floor. I retrieved it and placed it beside her, and as she buried her face in its neck, I kissed her forehead. Adorable sigh.

“I love you, Daddy.”


	12. Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a continuation of the previous one (Bono described Edge and Morleigh's wedding and promised to write about the 10 months leading up to it as well). So it's more Bono POV, lots more, nearly 11,000 words more. I thought about breaking this up into two or three chapters, but I like the way they hang together as this big sprawling thing. A few days ago I realized there are sixteen distinct scenes here, like the cover of Achtung Baby. 
> 
> \-----
> 
> The song at the funeral: they had two more years to work on that one, and I'm guessing it evolved at least a bit during that time. It's a known song whose title I did not mention for artistic reasons. 
> 
> The part about taking the mirror from Bob's house is something I sketched out in Hidden In Plain Sight and expanded here.
> 
> Bono really was in Venice with his son that day.
> 
> Earlier this year, the phrase "back in your body" became known to the fandom, and I attempted to explain its origins here.
> 
> See Bono flash a peace sign with George W. Bush here:  
> http://www4.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Bono+Turns+50+Yl_iXvZgUQVl.jpg
> 
> The church scene is based on a couple of sentences I found when researching this chapter. He was there during the Easter weekend and had an epiphany that brought him some peace. And that was my starting point when I plotted this chapter.
> 
> I'm neither Catholic nor Jewish, so I did what I could to research what goes on in church during Good Friday services and at a Seder at Passover. Also I have never been to Aix and its environs and had to look at a variety of videos to get some idea of the place. Apologies if I'm way off the mark on these things.
> 
> I've made that pasta recipe more than a few times.
> 
> \-----
> 
> I think this chapter is the emotional centerpiece of Bono's side of the story. It was difficult for me. The subject matter is tough, and sometimes I could only manage to write a few hundred words per day. I'm very happy with the way it turned out, particularly the domestic scenes, and if I may be so bold, I think it's one of the best things I've written. Thank you for reading, and I hope you like it. Please let me know.

_Edge, my love, here it is._

_B._

\-----

We buried him ourselves. It was the last thing we could do for him. Norman and I dug the grave and covered him with dirt, and blisters bloomed like poppies along the palms of my hands. I think it would have amused him to be the reason why my hands, “as soft as a kept woman’s,” had endured an honest day’s work for the first time in their coddled lives.

You were there with me near the end of the mass singing that new song that needs a better chorus. You were there helping me carry him. You have been there since the night he slipped away, just like you promised.

He began whispering in the middle of the night, and you were asleep on the cot when I alerted Saoirse, the night nurse. She and I put our faces close to his, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Was this it? Was he talking to me? I looked at his face and wondered how I might say goodbye to my own sons.

_I love you. I’m proud of you. You’re a good son._

“Fuck off,” he said loudly. “I want to go home. I need to go home.” And then he was gone.

Saoirse took my hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “I’m so sorry, love. I’ll give you some privacy.” She turned off a few machines, picked up his chart, and left the room. I stood there looking at his face--the same bushy eyebrows, the same timeworn skin, the same solid chin engulfed in the same deflated neck--but he didn’t look like himself anymore. His Parkinson’s-plagued body was eerily still. I heard a metallic creak from the cot, and then your arms were around my chest. Your hand caressed my cheek, and I turned around to be enveloped in your embrace. I felt like one of the injured birds you used to rescue and nurse back to health when you were a boy.

“He’s gone," I said.

“I’m here. I love you."

I thought about all that he was and all that he was not, and I wept.

We gave ourselves a few minutes of silence, and I listened to your heart beating and the reassuring rhythm of your breathing...quite like the waves at Eze. We knew this was coming, but of course it was still shocking when it actually happened. I looked back over my shoulder at my father, at Bob, finally free of the body and the sadness that held him hostage. Finally with Iris again.

I sighed. “I’m doing it,” I said, and you knew I meant the four London shows.

You kissed my temple. “I’ll take care of it,” you said, and I knew you meant the phone calls.

I kissed my father’s cool forehead and his hands. _You can’t stop me from doing this now, can you?_ His skin felt like weathered newsprint.

The day began.

You, Larry, Adam, and Paul formed a protective membrane around me, our audience wrapped themselves around us, and the music surrounded everyone and everything. “Use the songs. Live inside them,” you said. “Let us hold you up.” And somehow I did. I injected songs about love and loss with my naked grief. Through the pain and through each awkward, voice-cracked pause, I knew I was born to do this. People have said the new songs have helped them through disaster and bereavement. And that week, I was one of those people.

Norman took care of the horrifying minutiae while I merely wrote a check and got my blasted photo in the papers. He drove me back home after the burial. We had dirt under our nails and were speechless. Orphans, technically.

Ali and her family had prepared food for our visitors--mostly close friends who showered us with sympathy and affection--for an abbreviated post-funeral _whatever you call those things_. Eli and Sian were trotting around from room to room holding hands. His miniature motorcycle jacket (“like Daddy’s”) contrasted adorably with his bouncing, light brown curls. John clung to Ali and was inconsolable when I attempted to relieve her for a few moments.

Eve and Jordan understood what was going on and stood together with wide, shining eyes, not knowing what to do...their first funeral, the poor darlings. We sat on a couch and talked quietly about the upcoming school year. Most children despise this topic, but they seemed content to discuss anything other than what was currently going on. Jordan--suddenly so grown up in a midnight blue dress and talking about her final year of primary school--paused mid-sentence to touch my shoulder. “I love you, Dad.” I must have had tears in my eyes.

Later on you noticed me looking at my hands and fiddling with the blisters. “Come with me,” you said, and I followed you to the downstairs bathroom that had the better medicine cabinet. You closed the door behind us and gave me a hug. “Almost over.”

I exhaled. “I must admit I’ve been slightly worried today.”

“About…”

“Well, Mum died at her father’s funeral. What if…” I looked into your eyes.

“...it runs in the family? Oh. I never even thought.” You held me tighter.

“Well, it looks like I’ll survive if I can get through the next half hour.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t die from blisters,” you said, rummaging around for some first aid supplies.

“They are indeed life-threatening little bastards.”

“Sit.”

I got comfortable on the side of the tub and watched you go to work sterilizing a needle, applying some iodine to my skin, draining the main offenders while leaving the minor ones alone, dabbing on some ointment, and bandaging me up. “I fucking love you, Edge.”

Ali had covered the mirrors in the house (an Irish funeral custom I had forgotten about). You lifted the gauzy fabric obscuring the mirror above the sink so you could examine your left eye. “Something is in there...got it.” I nuzzled my cheek against yours, and we looked at our reflection for a few seconds. “You’re my best friend, B.”

“So are you.”

We played Slane the following night.

And then we had a few weeks of blessed down time before the final leg of the tour began in the States. Norman and I needed to take care of Dad’s things. Once again he had done nearly all of the heavy lifting, bless him, and one morning you and I went through the mostly-empty house to see if there was anything worth saving. The old man was not the kind of person who liked to rearrange furniture or make any changes in terms of decor. So seeing a blank space on the floor that his favorite leather wingback chair had occupied for decades was unsettling. Norman and Dad had edited his belongings a few months before he went into the hospital, and they were merciless about what to keep and what to throw away. The house was eerily picked-over, and the sound of our footsteps seemed somehow rude. Light poured in through the windows, free from curtains for the first time in ages, illuminating specks of dust.

I took home some opera records. I wasn’t sure what I had expected to find. Certainly not a scrapbook of my clippings, but maybe some pictures of my mother…? Nothing. We walked around from room to room. In his bedroom was an old, heavy mirror peppered with fly specks. I remembered it from my childhood, and I wanted it.

We took it down with some effort. “The wall behind it is much brighter,” you noticed. We managed to cram it into your car because it wouldn’t fit in mine. You folded the back seat down and we slid it in until it was standing mostly upright with part of it between the front seats. It was like a wall dividing us.

As you drove us to my house, I was confronted with my reflection. I looked tired, older...like him in some ways. But I also resembled Mum--same blue eyes, same mouth. I remembered when this mirror used to hang near the front door and her last-minute primping sessions before she would leave the house. Women can take on such charming expressions when they’re gazing at themselves and assuming no one else is watching. Mum always seemed to be sharing a private joke with herself.

Once--I guess it must have been ten years ago--you and I were at a pub with our fathers. I can’t remember the circumstances, but we were well into our cups. I’m sure you and I were doing our best to disguise our...god, Edge. Our undeniable hunger for each other that first year. I was looking at you when I heard a small gasp of recognition coming from Dad. “What?” I asked a bit too defensively.

“Nothing. It’s just...sometimes you look like her. So much.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry.”

I mean, no wonder he and I fought when I was a teenager. Not only did he have to finish raising Norman and me alone, but my face was a constant reminder of the woman he loved and lost. If he were being completely honest, he would have swapped me for her in a heartbeat.

What kind of man would I be if I had to bear such a loss? How would I feel about my children if Ali were suddenly gone? I see her in all of them; Jordan especially. How would I feel about your children if you were suddenly gone? Sian looks just like you. I love them, but would I resent them, too, just a little?

He did his best.

“I’m here,” you said. I raised my hand over the top of the mirror, and you drove the rest of the way to my house holding it.

We lugged that heavy motherfucker all the way to that upstairs room that’s filled with old books and antique furniture I can’t bring myself to throw away. Golden Caravaggio sunlight. We heaved it up on a table, tipped it back against the wall, and looked at ourselves in a very sad mirror that had spent decades reflecting a bitter old man. You kissed me and smiled, and I told you that yours was the only unconditional male love I had ever received. “I’m always going to be with you,” you said.

A couple of days later, Norman arrived with some boxes: silverware and a set of porcelain dinnerware. He and Geraldine had no use for them but didn’t have the heart to throw them away, so they were given to us “since you have so much more room.”

That same day, Ali and I had a bit of spare time while we waited for you to drop by. Morleigh had kindly made us lunch, and you were her delivery boy. So the two of us sat at the dining room table and started polishing the badly-tarnished silverware using baking soda and old toothbrushes. She was on fork detail while I was in charge of the spoons and knives. The metal warmed to match the temperature of my (nicely healed) hands. It was tedious work, and we joked darkly about why we were even doing it. The silverware would simply go back inside its velvet-lined box and sit, unused, in the aforementioned room upstairs until we died. Then Jordan, Eve, and the boys would fight over who had to clean and house it next. “I should have someone melt it all down and turn it into a bust of Bob,” I said, arranging my features to resemble one of his pissier expressions. Then I held my face in my hands and pulled everything back toward my ears, giving myself a two-second facelift.

“You don’t realize what you’re doing,” she said.

“What?”

“That thing with your face just now. I’ve seen you do it a few times lately. It’s like you’ve taken on some of Bob’s mannerisms.”

“Oh, you think so? What else?”

She massaged the bridge of her nose and gently shook her head. “That.”

“No kidding.”

The girls were back in school, and the boys were napping when you arrived. We pushed the silverware aside and ate Morleigh’s excellent sushi (“She taught herself how to make it. I can always tell when she misses California”). You pointed at our silver project with your chopstick. “There’s an easier way to do that.”

“Do tell.”

You went into the kitchen--kind of adorable how you know where almost everything is--and proceeded to show us how. Kettle on the stove, aluminum foil lining a glass baking dish, a spoonful of baking soda and a spoonful of salt in the dish, hot water filling the dish. You dipped a tarnished spoon into the water, and within seconds it was good as new.

“Christ, Edge, is there anything you don’t know?” 

“It’s just science.”

“And all this time I’ve been doing it the hard way.”

Ali rolled her eyes at us fondly and opened a dusty cardboard box full of plates. “Oh wow,” she said, freeing the top plate from its newspaper wrapping, circa 1974. “Do you remember these at all?”

I gasped. _Her_ good china. The plates, cups, and bowls were white and decorated with a purplish-pink iris motif. She saved them for special occasions, and it was as if I had been given the keys to a time machine. I would have last seen them at Easter when I was thirteen, nearly thirty years ago, and she must have wrapped and boxed them herself. These were objects she had touched. I held the plate against my chest.

The two of you stood beside me and unwrapped a couple of other plates. _Iris china_ she had written on a now-brittle piece of masking tape still clinging to the cardboard. Dad, of course, had never taken them out of their boxes. I can’t say I blamed him. They were so feminine, so her, and eating from them would have been yet another sad reminder of her absence.

“I know these don’t go with anything we have, but--”

“Of course, love. We’re keeping them. We’re using them.”

About a week later, Eli and I were in Venice. Maybe this was me feeling guilty because he had grown so much while I was away, and maybe this was me trying to be the father I’d always wanted, but I had whimsically decided to travel with him for couple of days (with his nanny in tow; I’m not insane). We had only been there for a few hours--enough time for him to ride on a gondola, have a minor meltdown, and be soothed with gelato.

Surprising no one, I got us hopelessly lost in Venice’s impossible maze of canals and bridges. I spotted a place called The American Hotel and went inside to get directions from people who hopefully spoke English, because here’s how much Italian I know: _un poco._ The fact that no one paid any attention to me when I walked in was a welcome change of pace, but then I saw what they were staring at: a television with the World Trade Centers on fire.

“This just happened…?” I asked a woman who was clearly upset.

“About an hour ago. Airplanes.”

I watched in complete disbelief for a few minutes. Then, dazed, I grabbed the nearest water taxi, and it took us back to our hotel. The next hour was spent making phone calls and gaping at the terrifying and relentless news coverage. You were in Los Angeles, Larry and Paul were in Dublin, and Adam was in Bangkok. Through the miracle of technology, we had a brief conference call where everyone made plans to return home immediately. And we all concluded: _We’re still doing it._

You and I stayed on the line. “Baby.”

“Fuck. Those poor people. How are we going to do this?”

“I have no idea.”

“Give me something to think about.”

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

And you were.

October and November, back in the States. A grueling schedule of thirty shows; our band’s defining moment. What was supposed to have been a mere victory lap became something much more intense, and I don’t think I’ll ever fully comprehend what we managed to do as we traversed that shell-shocked and heartbroken country.

We didn’t go out after the shows. Security was tight, and parties were rare. I was physically and emotionally spent every night. In the car on the way back to the hotel, I’d curl into the fetal position with my head in your lap, shivering. I’d never felt cold after shows in the past, but that’s what happened to me last fall. Finally back in our bed, our bodies stale and numb, you held me and guided me out of the awful gasping.

Your voice was hypnotic, and I obeyed it the way I obey gravity. You praised my performance and calmly talked about the show. You reestablished our connection, and you replaced everything I had offered the crowd and everything they had taken from me...so I could be ready to give it away to the next one.

 _Just lean into me. That’s right. I know what you need. I’m here, and you’re with me, and I love you more than anyone. Look at you. So beautiful. You moved me to tears tonight during_ Bad _. Did you see that? I had to turn away for a second to keep it together. But the crowd, the way they clung to your voice, so many people hurting, so many raw emotions...you helped them. You did. I know you did, and I’m so proud of you. And now we’re here together, and I’ve got you, and you can just let go, okay? I love you. That’s right. Just breathe in and out, that’s all you have to do. These hands of yours, this face...you are so special, strange, and wonderful. These freckles on your shoulders, that strong, lovely back. Yes. Come back. I’m here. I’ll do whatever you want. Come back to me. Come back. Back in your body, baby._

Once my breathing returned to normal, you urged me to eat something--you, urging me! We cleaned ourselves up, and you maintained me the way you might take care of a beloved car whose engine needed...oil? Sometimes you need to fix a filter or replace a belt? I don’t know how to take care of a car. But you knew what to do with me.

You had significant needs as well, of course, and I took care of you too, but I was the needy one last year. We lost ourselves in sex during the off days, and thank god for those. Everything I couldn’t bring myself to think about was drowned out by my own cries and moans and that gorgeous _ahhh_ of yours when you enter me. I can still hear it, Edge. I’m thinking about it now. Are you thinking about me, too? Do you miss me?

_Back in your body, baby._

That final leg of the tour was a blur, and while everything about it was frighteningly extreme, I began to adapt to it just as it was winding down. Once we were back in Dublin, I was restless, no surprise. I took advantage of any opportunity to simply get in the car and drive, even to drop the girls off at school, just so I could have scenery rushing around me. So I was happy to run Ali's long list of Christmas-related errands and maybe take the long way home.

One of those errands included a trip to your parents’ house to deliver a fruit basket. It didn’t take a whole lot of convincing to get you to tag along, and we spent part of the afternoon in their kitchen. Your father sat at the table with a jigsaw puzzle of Mont Sainte-Victoire by Cezanne in front of him, and he was sorting out the pieces. The dining room radio was playing Christmas carols at a low volume.

“Edge pieces,” Garvin chuckled while making small piles of them. You sat down beside him and helped him sort.

“And which ones are the Bono pieces?” I asked.

You looked at the box and pointed to the mountain’s snowy peak. “Gotta be those.”

Meanwhile, your mother was busy taking meat off the bones of a roasted chicken, and I sat on a stool and watched her. The kitchen was cozy and pleasantly humid with cooking smells, and the sun was already low in the December sky. Soft light found its way through the trees and illuminated her white hair like a halo. “Would you like to stay for supper, lads?”

“What are we having? I’m going to guess...chicken,” I said.

“Bright boy. It’s a chicken and leek pie.”

“Oh god. We’re staying,” you said emphatically.

Gwenda’s eyes and her hands are just like yours, Edge. Her long, skilled fingers went to work creating piles of her own: skin, bones, and meat. Clearly this was an task she had done countless times, and she barely needed to look at what she was doing.

“How are you, love? You look thin.”

“Flattery’ll get you everywhere, Mother Edge.” I shrugged. “I’m okay. It’s been a rough year, though.”

“We’re so proud of you boys.” She continued to work. The chicken made squishy sounds as she put it through its paces, and she hummed along with the radio from time to time.

“Edge, we should consider recording some Christmas songs.”

“We really should.” Your back was turned to me, but I could tell you were smiling.

“I think that’s a delightful idea.”

“Ha!” Your father had completed the bottom border of the puzzle, a rather somber line of dark grays and greens. You were putting the tilted blue mountain together.

As I watched your mother, I envied your young life at home with her. What must it have been like having such a kind woman taking care of you and making things like chicken and leek pies on a regular basis? I shuddered as I recalled the rudimentary nutrition three unhappy men produced for several years: a lot of things from plastic wrappers, a lot of things from cans.

I sat down at the table with you and Garvin. When one of you found a piece the other could use, you’d slide it over. Oh Edge, your beautiful hands, your wrists.

Your mother nudged your father gently with her elbow and fed him a bite of chicken thigh; this was obviously something he expected and something she was happy to provide. “Oyster?” she asked the two of us.

“Please,” you said.

“You have oysters?”

“They’re chicken oysters, dear. On either side of the backbone are two little bits that are the best parts of the bird. They pick up all the juices as it cooks.” She flipped over what was left of the chicken and slid two kidney-shaped pieces from the center of its back.

“Most people never get to eat them because they're considered a chef’s treat,” you said.

“I've certainly eaten my share.”

She fed one to me, and it more than lived up to the hype. Meltingly delicious. “How did I live this long without knowing about chicken oysters?”

“And one for you.” You smiled and looked up at your mother as she popped the other oyster into your mouth and kissed your cheek. I imagined this tender scene playing out again and again over the course of forty years.

She put the bones into a stock pot. Then, remembering something, she fished out the wishbone. “Make a wish,” she said, looking at you and me and putting the small, V-shaped bone in our hands, tug-of-war style.

_I want my children to have families like yours, Edge._

We pulled on the slippery bone, and the bigger part snapped off in your hand.

“What did you wish for?”

I felt your hand on my knee. “I wished for Bono to get what he wanted.”

“Edge.”

Your mother kissed my cheek and whispered, “We’re happy that you have each other.”

Your father found the puzzle piece with the snowy mountaintop. He passed it to you and looked at me. “You’re our son, too, as far as we’re concerned.”

I’ll never forget that.

No wonder you became the man you are now, Edge.

The holidays came and went, and then we were back on the treadmill. I could barely keep track of where I was and whether I was an activist or a singer from one day to the next, but I made a point of staying in touch with you and Ali when I was on my own. You were in the studio and occasionally attended quantum physics lectures by Stephen Hawking “because I wanted to learn about quantum physics,” you absolute maniac. I spent at least a third of the winter in the sky--somehow fitting a trip to Malawi in there--and while I was alone for the most part, there were two notable exceptions: the Super Bowl and the Grammys.

Now this was the bacchanalian victory lap we missed out on in the fall. We were The Beatles for the third time in our lives. You and I made up for lost time whenever we could. As haggard as I was, you were so flawless you could continue to get away with wearing the adult equivalent of children’s clothing on every occasion.

Was I using alcohol and sex to drown out noises I had been ignoring for months? Maybe. Probably. Did I enjoy every second of it? When I was with you, yes. After the Super Bowl, I drank so much red wine I took a nap and/or passed out (debatable) on a bathroom floor in the French Quarter. It made for a fun and humanizing anecdote in that fawning _Is Bono the Second Coming of Christ?_ profile Time magazine wrote about me. Cringe-worthy or not, I suppose it served a purpose: at least now most members of Congress recognize me, and you-know-who returns my calls.

But once we were back in our suite of rooms in New Orleans, exhausted and absolutely plastered, I couldn’t have cared less about you-know-who. We fell onto the bed fully clothed and in no condition to do anything other than giggle about various stupid things.

“Permission to fool around with you if I wake up first?” you said, giving me a sloppy goodnight kiss.

“As if you even have to ask. Permission granted.”

Hours later I was naked and being coaxed into a steamy shower (“let’s wash the Super Bowl off us”). You had my phone in your hand (“blasted thing buzzing all night”) and started playing the messages. “Bono! Bill. Just wanna say that was an incredible performance tonight. Really moving and exactly what the country needed from you boys. Hillary and I send our love.” “Hey Bono, it’s Bruce. That was the best halftime show I’ve ever seen. Had me kicking myself for not owning a jacket like that. Just phenomenal. Give the guys my best.” You put the phone on top of the towel rack in the shower where it continued to provide a bizarre and often hilarious soundtrack (“Does the senator from the great state of North Carolina know you beg me to do this to you?”) to at least a half hour of foreplay. And regular play. We never made it to the bed, but afterward our bodies were positively sparkling.

I was still coming down while you rushed around getting ready for your flight back to Dublin, and out of solidarity I got dressed, too.

“See you in…?”

“When are the Grammys? I guess it’ll be in a couple of weeks, Edge. Damn it.”

“Stay in touch.”

“Of course, love.” We kissed for a while, and your hands settled in my back pockets. My legs were still trembling from the convulsive orgasm with which you had gifted me, and you chuckled with a delightfully uncharacteristic air of machismo. You even paused to take a look.

“Just when I thought your ass couldn’t get more adorable.”

“Check it all out, Edge. You did that to me.”

“I certainly did.”

Oh, I missed you a lot that winter.

Then one day in Washington, D.C., when the cherry blossoms were just beginning to bloom and spring was achingly close, I met with President George W. Bush. I inhaled the not-unpleasant scent of decay and rebirth as we walked through the dormant Rose Garden. I knew how it looked: Rock Star Sells the Fuck Out. Camera shutters clicked away like rattlesnakes. _Don’t smile don’t smile it’ll send the wrong message_ , I told myself all the while. Instead I raised my hand in a peace sign. This amused him. “I can see the headlines now: Rock Star Meets the Toxic Texan.”

Indeed. That was the photo every news service ran, and that photo was the reason why you weren’t returning my calls or answering my emails. My numerous calls and emails.

So I called Larry. “You’d better believe Edge is fookin’ mad at you, and frankly so am I, you eejit.”

So I called Ali. “I’m sure you think you know what you’re doing, but do _not_ mess up what you have with Edge, my _darling._ ”

So I called Adam. “Edge is...disappointed. You know how he feels about the Bush administration. He realizes your heart is in the right place, but I think he just needs a little quiet time. And then you’ll need to prove to him that this was somehow worth it.”

So I called Morleigh. “Oh honey. Now is not the time. Maybe in the morning? I’ll call you when the coast is clear.”

Admittedly, the silent treatment lasted less than one day, but I was shaken. I was tossing and turning in my (fucking palatial, holy shit let’s stay there sometime, Edge) D.C. hotel bedroom, when Morleigh called and gave me the high sign. “Edge and Sian have just come down from her treehouse, and he’s laughing. Good luck!” I rang you.

“This is Edge.”

“Edge. Love. Thank you for picking up.” You were breathing but not talking. “Okay. I understand. Alright. Well. Just so you know, yesterday was surreal. The White House. His staff and hangers-on gaped at me like I was a fucking giraffe. Okay, wildebeest.” Nothing. Yet. “I had forgotten to tuck in my shirt, and I tried to play it off like it was intentional, but it wasn’t, and once I was in the Oval Office, yeah. No chance of fixing it. Anyway, he didn’t seem to mind.”

“Hm.” Nearly inaudible, but it was _a sound_. Your frozen pond was splitting.

“Oh Edge. It was like being on a movie set, except it was real, bafflingly real. The rug with the seal, the paintings of Lincoln and Washington, the desk--I was star-struck by the _objects_ in that room. But I had to focus, so I took some deep breaths the way you taught me. We sat in a couple of striped chairs. And I proceeded to make my pitch for Africa. Still there?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, I’ll spare you. You’ve heard it all before so many times. But as I was talking, I noticed a twinkle in his eye. So I paused and said, politely as you please, ‘Mr. President?’ Then he chuckled and, if I may impersonate him, he said, ‘You say _been_ like it’s _bean_!’”

You laughed. “What? He actually said that?”

“He did indeed.” This was a lie. I made up that story to get you to laugh, but you’ve got to admit it’s well within the realm of possibility.

“Holy shit.”

“Oh love. I’m so sorry this upset you. Believe me, I had mixed feelings about meeting him, and the day was bracketed by two sleepless nights, which is really saying something because this bed, Edge? It’s like I’m rolling around in the palm of a goddess’s hand.”

“Well, it’s just...I feel like you’re dealing with an administration that wants to plunge the world into a pointless war. And not to mention take advantage of you.”

“I totally get that. Some of the people in his inner circle are ruthless. You can just sense it.”

“It makes you look...like you’re okay with that.”

“You know I’m not. Our fans know I’m not. But obviously this is going to tarnish my--tarnish _our_ \--image somewhat, and I apologize for that. But Edge: I don't think he's pure evil. It seems like he’s in way over his head, and he would probably rather be doing something else. I think he's being used, and he knows it, and maybe he wants to redeem himself in some way. There was this moment of vulnerability...anyway, that's where I came in. I spoke to the president I thought he would want to be, if he in fact really wanted to be president in the first place.”

You sighed. “So how did it go?”

“You know me, Reg. I’m not a cheap date.”

“This is true.”

“That meeting may have cost me, but I also got my way to the tune of five billion additional dollars in U.S. aid to Africa.”

“Billion, not million?”

“Billion.”

“Jesus Christ, B.”

“Yeah. It worked.”

You exhaled. “I’m proud of you, baby.” _Baby._

“Edge, I miss you.”

“I miss you. Come back home.”

“Two more weeks, I’m afraid. Bill and Melinda Gates--”

“Alright. Two more, and that’s it.”

“By the way, Edge? I may also have a White House nickname now.”

A chuckle. “What is it?”

“...Bean.”

“Well, of course it is. Goodbye, little Bean.”

“It’s just Bean.”

“I love you, little Bean.”

“I love you, little Egg.”

Edge, I’d be happy to dig back into my ridiculous day planner later on if you’d like a detailed rundown of everything I did during those two weeks, but right now I simply can’t be arsed to do that. I’ll put it this way: it was another long grind of press conferences, discussions, off-days when I didn’t know what to do with myself, ridiculously good and bad food, “recreational” reading about trade agreements that was so dry it made me want to put a gun in my mouth, private jets, necessary cigarettes because _you have no idea how much I need them when I’m dealing with these people and you’re not here_ , social drinking that sometimes devolved into antisocial drinking if I’m being completely honest, not having sex with anyone except for yours very truly, uncomfortable clothing that still isn’t one hundred percent acceptable but I’ve stopped caring, cell phone fucking riveted to the side of my head, and unflattering press photos of me looking uncool and old and short with other uncool and old and tall people.

As my late-night driver glided down Central Park West, I was happy to be leaving for home via a private jet from LaGuardia. I felt a chill when we passed the Dakota Building--hard not to think about John Lennon any time that hulking edifice comes into view. I put up the partition and saw my reflection in the dark glass. _I’m a little older than he was, but not by much,_ I thought, looking at the sunglasses I just automatically put on no matter what time it is now, the utility jacket, the defiant mouth...yeah. I removed the glasses and ran my fingers through my overdyed hair...and there was Bob from my teenage years looking back at me. _When Mum died, he was a little older than I am now, but not by much._

I shook my head and turned my attention to...how about the radio? Nothing but news-talk on the NPR side of the dial until I landed on a classical station. They were playing Mozart’s _Lacrymosa_. A peppy little ditty for...I had forgotten it was almost Good Friday. Mozart wrote that Requiem for his father, didn’t he? Dad used to play it when I was a child before…

You know how a piece of music can make you feel instantly and unbearably sad, but it’s so beautiful you can’t stop listening to it? I rolled onto my side, curled into a ball, and broke down. How do I have the gall to even think I’m a musician? The leather seat cradled my back as those angelic voices and that undeniably divine melody pierced my heart.

You picked up the phone after two rings.

“Edge?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Can you meet me in Eze? Today? Tonight? I’m just…”

“Ehm...okay. I think I can...yeah. Alright. I’ll call you when I’m almost there.”

“My love. Thank you.”

“B?”

“I’m just...overwhelmed.” I looked out the window and gasped. “Oh Edge. I wish you could see this.”

“What is it?”

“The most extraordinary blue lights are shooting up into the sky where the Towers used to be. My god, I...”

“I love you. Shh. Let me take care of you.”

“I love you.”

“Very soon. I promise.”

Very soon. I promise. I felt oddly compelled to study my reflection as tears continued to roll down my face.

_For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known._

I slept on the plane and arrived in Eze during the early afternoon hours. I thought about buying ingredients in the hopes of making some kind of disastrous little meal for us, but everything in Eze was closed for the holiday. By the time I had exhausted my grocery options, I was close enough to the church to pay it a visit. I removed my sunglasses to blend in with the small crowd of worshipers who were making their way up the hill, and I followed them inside. Most seemed to be pensioners on holiday along with some probable locals. Near a side aisle, I spotted a lovely portrait sculpture of Jesus that looked enough like you to make me want to sit beside it in one of the uncomfortable wooden pews. (His eyes were a bit too alarmed to match yours, but the cheekbones and beard made me nod.)

The service was brief, quiet, and suitably mournful--Veneration of the Cross. A procession was led by a priest who carried a cross that was about four feet tall and draped in red fabric. He displayed it in front of the barren altar. Then he slowly revealed the figure of the crucified Christ and prostrated himself before it. He kissed the sculpture’s feet, the wound in his side, and hands with great reverence.

As a child, I found the story of the Passion altogether terrifying and in the same league as the Holocaust, the Salem witch trials, and slavery in the American south. Once the convoluted story was explained to me, it still didn’t make a whole lot of sense. What made sense was the undeniable unfairness of it all: how could God, a loving father, ask Jesus, his perfect son, to make the ultimate sacrifice for the salvation of humanity? What kind of father does that? I remember feeling physically ill as I sat in church beside Mum and listened to a particularly graphic description of Christ’s suffering. I ran outside and sat on the steps, shaking. She followed, sat beside me, and comforted me. “They make an even bigger deal of it in your Da’s church, believe it or not,” she said.

I joined the line of worshipers who, one by one, knelt in front of the cross and kissed Christ’s feet. I tried to imagine my father doing the same thing, all alone in his church, while the rest of his family sat in a different one not too far away. He could kiss a sculpture, but he couldn’t kiss me.

The woman in front of me knelt, kissed, and, with tears in her eyes, looked up at the sculpture’s face as if it were real. She seemed to be having trouble getting back up, so I helped her. “Merci, mon cher,” she whispered. Then I knelt and beheld his pale feet, one on top of the other and pierced by a horrible nail. Why does every artist’s depiction of Jesus resemble you in one way or another? These feet reminded me of yours, and that realization stung. I kissed them and returned to my seat, thinking about you as much as I was thinking about Jesus.

The service ended, and the assembly departed in silence. But I couldn’t move. For the second time that day, tears were streaming down my face. My father was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. I would never see him again, I would never hold his hand, I would never laugh at his dry jokes again, I would never hear him sing or speak again, and I would never hear him say he was proud of me.

I held my head in my hands.

He had never told me he loved me. Was I really that unlovable? As many times as my friends and family had told me how much he loved me or was proud of me, the old man could never bring himself to say those things to my face. And now he never would. His body was in the ground, and his soul was somewhere else. My father was gone.

“On some level, this will free you,” you had said back in August. But did it? His lack of affection was the one bad review in a massive stack of positive ones and the one face in a crowd of eighty-thousand I couldn’t reach no matter how hard I tried.

But.

This man had spent half his life without the woman he loved, without the woman who was stolen from him without warning. This man had spent half his life trying to reconcile the cruelty of that tragedy with his faith in the higher power who had seemingly made it happen.

This man had done his best.

And I loved him. He was my father.

Eventually the tears stopped, and I knelt and said a prayer thanking God for him. I rested my head on the pew in front of me and stayed there for a while.

A vibration startled me: my phone.

“Edge?”

“I’ll be there in about an hour.”

“Thank you so much.”

“I love you, you know.”

“I do.”

“Oh...baby, don’t cry.”

“I’m okay.”

I got up and walked home. We rarely visit Eze in spring, and it really was a lovely afternoon. Awfully clever of early Christians to co-opt the pagan rites of spring and use this time of year as a backdrop for the story of the resurrection. I could smell last year’s dead leaves and other debris feeding and giving way to the new growth. I took a deep breath and smiled: mud mixed with the scent of...green. Green like your eyes. It made me want to sing.

 _I don't know how to love him, what to do, how to move him_  
_I've been changed, yes really changed_  
_In these past few days when I see myself, I seem like someone else_

Once home, I was delighted to discover some frilly tulips blooming in various places around the grounds. I picked a creamy one with red stripes and slipped it through the handle of the door on the west side of the house as a gift for you.

You arrived in a cobalt blue Maserati Spyder. I watched you through the kitchen windows as the purring machine glided down the driveway. I heard a deep, rumbling groove and wondered what you were listening to. Possibly your own playing. I felt guilty that I had interrupted your life once again and asked you to drop everything to be with me.

Also, did you have groceries? No. But that paper bag in your hand contained a bottle of vintage wine, no question about it.

You were twirling the tulip between your fingertips when you entered the room, and your smile was exactly what I needed to see. Then I was in your arms.

“God, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, B. I missed you. Are you alright?”

I looked at the ceiling. “It all kind of came crashing down on me this morning: Dad, things I’ve been too busy to really process. I’ll tell you all about it. But how are you, Edge? Did I disrupt your day terribly?”

“Well, I’d like to get back tomorrow sometime. A certain little girl and boy are expecting a visit from the Easter bunny.”

“Of course, of course.” I touched your face.

“Nothing’s open here.”

“I know. We’re going to have to fend for ourselves, I’m afraid,” I said, turning to open some cabinets. “Maybe we could do one of those things where you just use whatever’s on hand and make...ehm...”

You chuckled.

“Do you know how to do that, Edge?”

“Yes, I know how to do that.” We scrounged around. I found a few boxes of variety pasta remnants and a can of crushed tomatoes. You saw this and took a tube of anchovy paste and some olives and capers from the refrigerator, saying, “Thank you, Cecile...what kind of spices do we have?” You rifled through the little rack. “Good. Ever make pasta puttanesca?”

“Probably not.”

“Can you boil some water for the pasta?”

“I can certainly try.”

I found a big pot and took care of this stooge labor while you, as usual, showed me how it is fucking done. You opened a fanciful bottle of olive oil that had garlic cloves in it. I had assumed that thing was merely for decoration.

“This should be okay,” you said, putting some oil in a pan along with a sprinkle of red pepper flakes and a squirt of the anchovies and turning on the heat.

I watched my pot of water as it sat there not boiling. “I’m holding it down over here, Edge. Do not worry.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

Once the anchovies had melted away, you added the tomatoes, olives, and capers. Oregano. Salt and pepper. A pinch of sugar. “It cuts down on the acidity.”

“Yeah, I mean, that’s what I always do.”

You gave it a stir and shot me a look that said, _My work here is done_.

I sampled the sauce. “That’s a pretty good recipe to have on the tip of your mind.”

“Well, it’s ostensibly a sauce invented by prostitutes...something they could make from pantry items so they didn’t have to run out to the store, I suppose.”

I glared at you with great affection. “Cute story, Edge.”

“It should be right up your alley.” You put the tulip in a glass of water and set it on the table.

My water began to boil approximately three hours later, and once we sat down to drink your wine and eat your whore’s spaghetti, I was feeling faint from starvation. It was the best goddamn pasta I had ever eaten.

I told you about my limo ride in New York and my breakdown in church. You reached across the table and took my hand.

“And I thought, _I might be through with him, but he’s not through with me._ ”

“Give yourself some time. Lean on the people who love you.”

“But it's been so long since--”

“Grief can blindside you at any moment. But as time passes, it'll happen less.”

I pushed my hair off my forehead. “I just wanted him to love me.” Your eyes are so kind, Edge.

“The fact that you are such a loving and joyful man is miraculous.”

“Living with my father? Love and joy was my primary act of rebellion.”

“Rebel rebel.”

“But Ali, you, and the band are the family I've chosen.”

“All of us love you unconditionally.”

“Thank god for you.”

“It also kind of goes without saying, but you’ve been the most overscheduled person in the world since Bob died, you know.”

“Yeah. I suppose what happened today was inevitable.” I sighed. “Doing things by myself lately has opened my eyes to how much I depend on you. The loneliness and the pressure can be…I’ve seen devastating things, Edge.”

“You have.”

“And the politicians I’m dealing with lead such insulated lives. It’s so hard to seduce them into caring about people half a world away who won’t even vote for them. But lives are on the line, millions of them...fuck.” I looked at you and watched your features mirror my own. “Then after I spend the day campaigning for those who have the least, I go back to some presidential suite or guest house or whatever, and it’s always way too big for one person, just sickeningly excessive, and you’re not there and she’s not there and it’s just me.”

“Shh.”

“I’m--” I lifted my other hand and let it drop on the table. You took it and held it, too.

“Back in your body, baby.”

Breathe. “Yeah.”

“It takes a great deal of intelligence and courage to do what you're doing. And patience.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I am, too.” You lifted my hands and kissed them. “You're doing important work, B.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s that smile I love.”

We went upstairs; I took the tulip with me. I set it near the bed and cracked some windows to air out the white room--the walls seemed to quake at the atmospheric shift--while you ran a bath for us on the third floor.

“Get in here with me,” you said when I returned, and I sank into the opposite end of the tub facing you. Dim golden light.

Lifting my head above the bubbles that decorated our knees like snow along a steaming mountain range, I asked, “So what have you been doing these days?”

“We just returned from L.A., as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah?”

“Morleigh’s parents hosted a Seder the other night. Really lovely as always. Sian found the afikoman, which is a matzo they hide somewhere in the house for the children to discover.”

“I’ll bet she was thrilled.”

“Well, it’s not particularly delicious, but, you get a little gift and, you know, bragging rights.”

“Sure.”

You pointed at your beanie near the sink. “One of Morleigh’s cousins joked that I wear a yarmulke at all times.”

“Ha--and so you do.”

“Apparently they come in different sizes, and if you wear a larger one, it means you’re more traditional.”

“Yeah, you’re super traditional, the Edge.” You grabbed my foot and attempted to suck my big toe, but I managed to escape, splashing you in the process. “So did you wear your beanie or a yarmulke at the Seder?”

“Morleigh’s Dad had a spare one.”

“I would pay good money to see that, you know.”

“I’m afraid I am already independently wealthy, B, so you can save your money.”

I chuckled, and we were quiet for a while, just relaxing and reconnecting physically. The water was very warm, and my muscles began to melt. I was back in my body. Profoundly back.

“It’s been ten years,” you said. “I guess we were too busy to really commemorate it properly.”

Ten years…? Oh.

“Well, that year was loaded with anniversary opportunities, wasn’t it? So far we've missed out on our first kiss, the first I love you, the first, if you will, oral experience.” I grinned. “And that’s a shame, but a pretty big one is still in play.”

“September.”

“Right. What a year that was.”

“What a year this is.”

“Relentless.”

“Come lean against me.”

“Okay.” Easier said than done, but I managed to turn around for you to spoon. Your arms and legs surrounded me, and your chest felt strong and warm against my back. Turning my chin to the side with your hand, you kissed me while I groaned with pleasure.

I felt your fingers flutter against my arm, as if you were counting something. “Your hair’s about four inches long.”

“I guess so...sorry about that.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. No. Hair grows about a half inch each month, so if you think of hair as a timeline, the ends here are when your father died. Christmas was right about here in the middle. The last time I saw you was down here. Lift your chin up.” You cupped your hands in the water and poured it over my hair.

“You adorable crackpot.”

“Sexy little despot.” Then you were washing my hair, and your fingertips were utterly entrancing. And you took your time. Obviously this always feels good no matter who is doing it, but the fact that it was you and you have an erotic attachment to my hair...your breathing became shallow, and so did mine.

“Oh. Edge. Fuck.”

“Too hard?”

“No, that’s perfect.” You deserved another kiss.

“Heh, if you stopped cutting this back when we started fooling around, it’d be five feet long now. Five feet and change. That’s basically your exact height--”

I shot you a look. “Well, gods be praised that I did cut it, right Edge?”

“Hosanna in the highest.” Gifted hands, that’s what you have, love.

I moaned. “This is exactly what I needed.”

“I have more for you.” You were hard against my back. “Okay, you can go under.”

I sank beneath the positively amniotic water, and you helped me rinse off. I came back to the surface, blinking and clean, and gazed up at your sweet face. “I love you, Edge.”

“I love you, Bono.”

We exited the tub a few minutes later and dried off. “Wanna comb it?”

“Of course.” You were hypnotically slow with that, too, and the next thing I knew, your tongue was in my mouth.

“Take me upstairs.”

“Let’s go.”

_Dark room, fresh spring air, no moon, just a million stars and one tulip watching us, Edge, my damp head cold against the pillow every hair on my body standing on end in our chilly bedroom in the navy blue sky, no games no well-thought-out scenarios no artifice no dominance no submission just love pure love pure need pure greed, your blissful smile your shining eyes your hands your mouth your sexy ahhs your shuddering moans, your perfect maleness your perfect tenderness your perfect weight spread out over mine, your perfect warm wet tongue warm hard cock god the heft of it Edge the way you feel in my hands in my mouth inside me all over me, I need it I need it so many in need and what can I do stop thinking about everything for one goddamn second and concentrate on the gift of this man, this genius, this saint, this angel who miracle of miracles loves you baby, back in your body baby let him be your friend lover brother father husband let him give you the love Bob couldn't, let him receive the love Bob couldn't, let him take you where he wants you to go because he knows he knows he just fucking knows what to do to you he always has he fucking loves you and he somehow needs you as much as you need him what a gift he is where the fuck did he come from, your perfect friend from outer space from heaven from across town, ten years of kissing him of sucking him of fucking him of letting him know every single part of your body your mind your heart your soul forever for ten years for today you saw through a glass darkly but now face to face, then you knew in part but now you know even as also you are known, he knows, he knows he knows he knows_

Edge.

Edge.

Edge.

I awoke to cascading, icy, music box notes. You were playing the piano.

“What is that?”

“Something I’ve been working on.”

“What a glorious way to wake up.”

You smiled and crossed the room. “We should go pretty soon, baby.”

“Okay. Of course.”

“I want to take you somewhere.”

We loaded your single bag and my four suitcases into the Maserati. I put the tulip in the cup holder; I couldn’t bear the thought of it withering away all alone upstairs. You brought what was left of the wine and some plastic cups. I nearly stepped on the dead mouse the Easter Kitty had placed on our doorstep, the sweetheart.

“So what are we doing, the Edge, on this fucked-up non-holiday between the crucifixion and the resurrection?”

“There’s a big market in Aix, and I thought we’d get some food there and have a picnic. Then we’ll fly home from Marseilles.”

“I love it.”

A white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, sunlit left arm holding the steering wheel: you know my weaknesses, and Sunlit Arm After a Long Winter is currently number one with a bullet. We talked about nothing particularly profound as we sped west on A8. Mostly we were quiet and spent the two hour drive listening to Bob Marley, pausing to pay the occasional toll, and admiring the lush Provencal scenery that has inspired painters for centuries. And your arm. Your hand. Your face. Your legs. Your chest. (The lush Provencal scenery was wasted on me, I’m afraid.)

The market was mobbed with wealthy locals--first one of the season, maybe--so you donned your baseball cap disguise and let me stay in the car. I handed you the tulip, saying, “Give it to someone who could use it.” I watched your form disappear into the crowd. _An angel walks among you, citizens of Aix._ I looked at the nearby cathedral and called a besieged Ali, who was up to her elbows in children and egg dye, to let her know I’d be home later on that afternoon.

You returned with some gorgeous brioche rolls that had something to do with Easter, Serrano ham, a small wheel of Le Severac cheese, palmier cookies, and a pint of blackberries.

“For immediate release: legendary guitarist emerges from market with ultimate picnic experience for his lover.”

“Hilarious, B.” You checked your map, nodded at it, and we continued north. The landscape became even more picturesque (and the palmiers were delicious). We were on the northern outskirts of town when I began to notice signs for L'atelier Cézanne.

“Cezanne’s studio?”

“I wanted to look at his mountain with you.”

The small yellow building had red shutters and a wall of north-facing windows--apparently he had painted there during his twilight years. We strolled on cobblestones around the cypress trees and numerous blooming plants until we came to a spot that gave way to an impressive vista of lowlands. They were crowned by the mountain from your father’s puzzle.

“Mont Sainte-Victoire,” you said, and I asked you to say it again because the words falling from your lips sounded very sexy.

“He made it seem so much bigger than it actually is,” I said, instantly feeling a kinship with the mountain that should have been ten thousand feet tall but was probably only about half that height. Still, it seemed to have burst from its relatively flat surroundings to leap into the sky, and it dominated the landscape.

This created a splendid backdrop for us as we sat down and organized your market finds on a bench. I was just about to tear into the bread when we heard a gasp and a muffled sob. An older gentleman contemplated the mountain, his hand over his mouth. He stayed this way for quite a while before dropping to his knees. After a moment, he looked around, and I caught his eye.

“C’est magnifique,” I called .

A bit bashful, he got up and said, “Yes. Oui.”

“American?”

“Why, yes...Scottish?”

I grinned and poured on the accent. “Irish. Well, technically he’s Welsh, but we’re both from Dublin. Are you an artist?”

“I’ve painted all my life. Seeing this is--words escape me. It’s my Jerusalem.”

I patted the bench. “Please, would you like to join us?”

We shared our food and wine with him and listened to the artist talk about his hero, upon whose grave he had recently left a beloved paintbrush. Cezanne had painted the mountain something like sixty times, nine of them from our exact viewpoint. “He was obsessed with that mountain and tussled with it all the time. He created his own visual language.” He sighed. “Picasso said he was the father of us all. Everything I know about composition comes from him.” He took in his surroundings, seemingly enchanted to be existing inside the paintings he had studied for so long. “I’ve wanted to visit this place since I was a teenager. Actually being here is like a dream.”

“How wonderful,” I said, feeling like a privileged monster. I didn’t even know we were coming here until thirty minutes ago.

“Very happy for you, sir.” We drank a toast to Cezanne.

“Are you two artists?”

“We’re musicians,” you said, smiling at me.

He picked up on our vibe and asked, “Are you in love?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t want to monopolize your time together.”

“No, it’s fine. We’re delighted to learn more about this place.”

“Well, thanks for keeping an old man company.” He looked at the mountain, stood, and gave us a wink. “I’m gonna go talk to my father for a while.”

“God bless you, sir.”

You took my hand and said quietly, “You have your own mountain to tussle with.”

“I do.”

“He may be gone, but you're not finished with him.”

“I'm not.”

You kissed my cheek. “You’re a good son.”

“Edge.”

Earlier that morning, just before we left the white room, I wrapped a sheet around myself and joined you by the door. “Look at us,” you said, facing the mirrored wall with me. Two men who understand and love each other completely gazed back at us.

I looked closer. My eyes are changing, Edge. They have seen so much and have lost that naïveté of my youth. My gaze is steadier. Mature. More like his.

I see him in the mirror.

But do you know who I also see? You. You have been there for me throughout everything this year. You have been with me for most of my life.

I think I have a better chorus for that song, Edge.

It's you.


	13. Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for an Edge chapter, and the email portion describes things that were happening in early-spring 2003. The main part of the chapter takes place in late August 2002, when Anton Corbijn shot the video for "Electrical Storm" at Bono and Edge's sex palace. Samantha is, of course, Samantha Morton. If you'd like to watch the short documentary I studied as I wrote this, do a search for "U2 Sur Mer" and enjoy!
> 
> Also while researching this chapter, I realized that I'd been saying the U2 "really fucking brilliant" Golden Globes happened in 2002, when it was in fact 2003. HORRORS! I have since gone back and corrected all references to this event. Sorry about that!
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this lighter chapter to the fabulous PJ, whose comments are the life blood of The White Room. She also came up with the concept of "fuck you in half" a long time ago, probably as a tag on Tumblr or in casual conversation, not sure which. But it has haunted me ever since, and it seemed like the perfect thing to have Bono say during a certain scene. THANKS PJ! And thanks to all of you who continue to read this. I believe I started writing it about a year ago.

_I can’t wait to watch you listen to this riff for the first time. And when it’s in a proper song, I can’t wait to watch you move to it. How many of my musical ideas have been inspired by what I think you might do with them? I can see you jumping right before this one kicks in and landing as soon as I hit it. Explosive. First song on the setlist. That’s how much I love this sound._

_I’m getting way ahead of myself. We’ve only finished three songs. But after being holed up in my home studio in Los Angeles for a week, I can tell you this was time well spent. I have seven rudimentary Pro Tools demos. I want you to listen to them first, and, if you like what you hear, we’ll need to figure out the best way to present them to Larry and Adam as a united front. If that goes well, I anticipate a very busy rest of the year._

_Morleigh, Sian, and Levi are here, but for the most part they’ve been spending the days with her relatives and enjoying California. Every so often I’ll emerge, mole-like, from my underground lair to reacquaint myself with the the sun, food, and their dear faces, or they will come down to give me the occasional snack or some tea._

_“What does Daddy do here?” I heard Levi ask Sian as they stomped down the stairs._

_“He gets to play all day. Hi Daddy,” she said, offering me a little bowl of blueberries. Levi opened his ubiquitous plastic bag of Cheerios and sprinkled a handful of them on top._

_“It’s actually hard work,” I said, looking at a sequencer that had been menacing me._

_“But you play a guitar. You don’t work a guitar.”_

_“I suppose that’s true.”_

_“You? Are playing.”_

_Levi touched my guitar. “I wanna play all day when I’m big.”_

_They were right. This should be play. I grabbed them and gave them hugs before they ran back up the stairs. I could hear their footsteps over my head for a few seconds before they disappeared into another part of the house._

_Another time Morleigh came downstairs, and she’s so light on her feet that her sudden presence in the studio always takes me by surprise. This time she wore a dazed expression. She put her arms around me and just said, “Fuck.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“It’s started. This fucked-up war has started.” And we went upstairs and sat in front of CNN for a few hours because what else can you do?_

_You and Ali arrived a couple of days later, and as I recall, every fifth syllable coming out of your mouth was also_ fuck _, and not in the fun sense of the word, and not in the FCC-violating sense of the word. You were seething because of a self-imposed muzzle--you were dealing closely with a president who was pushing for fifteen billion dollars in humanitarian aid to Africa. He was also the same president who authorized this Iraq invasion. You couldn’t afford to alienate him: not to his face, and not in the press. But god knows you wanted to. So you were in a bit of a mood, and you barely cracked a smile that weekend. Also, that slipped disc in your back was bothering you again. I’m concerned, Bono. You need to slow down and take care of yourself._

_You, Adam, and Larry were in L.A. for the justifiably somber Academy Awards, which we lost, and a meeting earlier that day with Jimmy Iovine and Apple, which...I’m gonna say we won, wouldn’t you? Eminem will want to trade his piece of hardware for our piece of hardware any day of the week._

_Then you left the following morning. We hadn’t had any time to ourselves, save for that little scene in the mudroom (Morleigh calls it that, although it’s more of a sandroom if you ask me)._

_“Sorry I’ve been such a fucking pill this weekend,” you growled, pushing me up against the wall and kicking some boots out of the way. Kissing me hungrily, you moaned and writhed against my body in an attempt to create a sort of concentrated Bono Sex Experience that might tide me over until the next time._

_“I’d be happy to fuck some sweetness back into that mouth of yours, baby.” You chuckled in spite of yourself, and taking your chin in my hand, I tipped your face up to meet my gaze. “What’s this? I do believe you’re blushing, B.”_

_“Jesus, Edge. You do know how to put things.”_

_My finger traced a line from your pink cheekbone to your handsome, rough chin. Your lips. Parting them, letting you suck it. “You’re mine,” I whispered, kissing your forehead._

_“Always.”_

_I miss you. Soon. It will be soon._

_Thanks for that call the other night. Where were you this time? Davos? Oprah’s house? I didn’t think to ask, and your bedroom voice, raspy from talking all day, got right to the point. I indulged your need to hear me elaborate on my sweetness remark, and damn if you didn’t inspire Tuesday’s recording session with the irregular rhythms of your breathing, special delivery right into my ear and exactly the way you sound on the mic sometimes, with that panting huff our producers are loath to edit because even your breathing is too sexy to be ignored, and then there's your actual voice emerging from that neck, that mouth, those lips, baby, hushed at first and then big and loud and crying out my name because you’re alone and you’re too insulated from the world at large to concern yourself with consequences at this point, perched high above the masses on your penthouse floor your fucking palatial state room with the personal elevator the dedicated staff on call twenty-four hours a day and your dedicated man on call twenty-four hours a day patiently standing by to walk you through whatever scenario you desire, jealous of your workmanlike hands._

_See? I can do it too, B._

_So. Those sounds you made were in the back of my mind as I fell asleep, and I know this happens with you: your eyes are closed, but things are still being worked on overnight. Subroutines continue to run, bless them. Sleep isn’t the same for me during an especially creative phase. I’ll wake up in the wee hours and try to meditate myself back to dreamland--usually an exercise in futility. The subroutines will tap me on the shoulder, and I’ll silently ask_ What have you got for me?

Come with me and I’ll show you. __

_I think of the collective subroutines as a she, oddly enough. I’ll throw on some clothes and follow her to the kids’ rooms to check on them, and then it’s down to the kitchen. La Pavoni sent me an espresso machine to play around with (I may have expressed an interest, or rather, espressed an interest, and apparently some of the higher-ups are fans). The subroutines will tap her feet while I futz around with coffee and toast--she knows I have rituals and the rituals matter. She’ll lead me downstairs and sigh with exasperation as I check my email and maybe do a quick Google news search to see what you’ve been up to over the past couple of days, if anything._

_Then I’ll just...contemplate the room. The instruments. Which one needs me? Which one thinks it has anything to say about the state of rock and roll guitar in the 21st Century?_

_As much as I love it when the four of us are recording together, I’m less inhibited when I am alone, and I can lose myself in the kind of compulsive repetition that would cause a normal person to go running for the hills. It’s all trial and error, and most of it is garbage, but it’s building to something. One sound influences another, and a web of connections is spun between them._

_I forgot to tell you about this: Sian attends a weekly activity class for preschool-aged children that’s put on by our library, and last month one of the instructors asked me if I would be willing to help out. I assumed I’d present a little show and tell with my guitars, but what I ended up doing was more meaningful. The children were given pieces of paper and crayons, and as I played, you know,_ whatever _for them, they drew what it sounded like. The kids seemed to understand this connection instinctively, and when I’d play something loud and jagged, their marks became wild and scribbly. When I played something delicate, they were gentle with their crayons and barely touched the paper with them. Then we looked at reproductions of Abstract Expressionist art and tried to figure out what the paintings were trying to sound like. And I think I took this concept with me to California because I’m seeing these melodies now._

_I’m creating a body of ideas...just sketches at the moment. Some are drawn with fine lines, and some are painted with sticks. Some are ethereal, and some are dense and black. Some are born of frustration--lust, mild jealousy, just a hint of rage, and always, always the need to impress you and let you know what you’ve been missing._

_Early this morning, that explosive riff arrived. There’s something primordial about it--like it’s always been inside me waiting to be set free. It’s an undeniable, audacious monster painted with red, yellow, and blue, and I’m the stupefied mother who can’t believe she gave birth to it. I spent some time racking my brain trying to remember if anyone else in the history of rock had come up with it before me. I don’t think so. The first time I played it, I felt the potent joy that can only come from creation. It felt better than an orgasm, and dare I say it was probably better than a female orgasm, too (I mean, honestly I’m jealous of how they’re able to--never mind). This is better because it’s permanent. I have it now, and it’s not going anywhere. All it wants is volume. Volume and your voice. Sometimes I don’t want to play loud, but now I do. Is this me screaming for your attention? I’m certain it is._

_Dallas invented a new toy for me. It’s a little slide that fits on the tip of my middle finger. Now I can switch from normal chords to playing slide in the middle of a song. This metal ring has become oddly erotic to me, and it makes me think of the things that fingertip knows and the things it has done to you, and now it is singing in a way that has never been heard before. I can’t wait to show you._

_I know you’ll protest this, but Bono, I’m not a renaissance man. I have plenty of casual interests, but I have only two obsessions: guitar, you. As cocky as it sounds, I say this in all humility: no one else has the patience, the love, or the focus to do them justice. I was born to play guitar, and I was born to be your lover._

_How long do I have to wait for you?_

_E._

\-----

“The mermaid is here!” Eve announced, looking out the kitchen windows and jumping up and down. 

Samantha was the last of our group of twenty-two people to arrive that evening, and Eve wove her way through them as they grazed on the casual summer buffet Ali and Cecile had put together. She grabbed Ali’s hand and mine and pulled us from the couch, and together we went down to the driveway to greet our video’s guest actress.

“She’s an actual movie star,” Eve reminded us, opening the door. She plucked a bloom from the blue hydrangea bush and presented it to a charmed Samantha, saying, “I wanna be like you when I grow up.”

“With a smile like that I’m certain you will,” she replied, bending down a bit so they were face to face. She greeted Ali and me warmly, and Eve and I followed them into the house. 

“She has the prettiest eyes I have _ever seen_ ,” Eve whispered confidentially. Your daughter resembles you more and more the older she gets. 

The rest of your children were with their grandparents for a couple of days. Ali didn’t want the boys to be underfoot during the shoot, and Jordan said that it was too close to the beginning of school and she needed to get her head together. Eve, on the other hand, did not want to miss this highly educational opportunity to watch an actual movie star become a mermaid.

Morleigh and the children were in Dublin. It was two months after our wedding, and we had settled back into our quiet domestic routine. During that time, the band (i.e. mostly me) put the finishing touches on our 90s compilation, including _Electrical Storm_. You and I had spent about a week in Monaco that summer, but it was never just the two of us. Ali wanted her fair share of your dwindling free time, and she traveled with you when she could. With no new album and tour in sight, I settled into my usual longing phase, except this time I felt a little different. Needier. 

You were playing host to our guests, and on any other occasion I could have imagined this impromptu gathering turning into one of those sprawling 24-hour parties you have been known to throw. But everyone had to be up at 5:00, so that put a damper on your fun somewhat. Adam and Larry (sans Ann, understandably) stood in a huddle with Samantha, and you and Anton watched them. 

“I must admit I have a few misgivings,” I overheard him say as I passed you.

“I genuinely thought he’d say no,” you replied with a chuckle.

“Do you have a plan B?” I asked Anton.

“The plan B is...B,” He said, winking at you, his inspiration forever. “I’m putting him in the water first thing tomorrow.”

“Better get my beauty sleep, then,” you said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. 

You spent the night with Ali, Samantha took my bedroom, and Larry and Adam returned to their still-new-seeming homes with some of the crew. Everyone else crashed on whatever beds and couches they could find. I hid out in the white room and looked at the mirrors. The photos. The table. The chairs. Realizing my services would not be needed until at least twenty-four hours later, I looked forward to spending a leisurely day poolside with Adam. 

The following morning I stayed in bed, and from my lofty perch I was largely able ignore the sounds of equipment being set up on the beach and people getting organized for a long day. The sun had yet to rise, but ultramarine blue was beginning to stain the eastern horizon. I was just about to fall asleep again when I heard your heavy little feet marching up the stairs. The door opened. Footsteps crossed the room to our bed. Your fingernail drew a line down my neck.

“Hey.”

“Morning, B.”

You turned on a lamp and, fully dressed entirely in black, you sat beside me. Your hair had been arranged by someone other than yourself, and another person had made your face similarly camera-ready. Not that it would matter to Anton’s black and white, faux Super-8 aesthetic.

“Don’t you look handsome?”

You smiled, glad to be in your rock star element once again. “Do you like?” you asked, indicating your shirt, which was a crewneck sweater of sorts. The knit fabric was semi-sheer and so delicate I was hesitant to touch it for fear of snagging it on my calloused fingers. Then again, the edges of the sleeves and the neckline were raw and frayed. It was clearly one of those brand new, pre-ruined items for which one pays a fortune. In the right light, and if someone were bold enough to study you for more than a few seconds, your torso was visible through the filmy blackness. It left me wanting more. Oh, I liked it very much.

I took your hand and dragged it down the sheet that was covering me until you reached a spot that gave you ample proof of my approval. “Does that answer your question?”

“Edge, you get hard at the idea of a perfectly-cooked poached egg,” you said, grinning. “Which we have lots of downstairs, incidentally.”

“You don’t say.” I bucked against your hand.

“Calm down, pretty boy.”

I couldn’t stop looking at your chest. “Can I touch it? I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Don’t worry. I have five others. But hands off...this whole thing,” you said, indicating the entirety of your head with a circular gesture. “I don’t want the girls to be cross with me.”

“Heaven forbid.” I kissed a nipple through your shirt and was pleased when it responded. “Erectile tissue.” 

You pulled my head closer; your skin was warm and still slightly damp from a recent shower. “God’s gift to man.”

“You’re god’s gift to this man.” I grabbed your ass, which was encased in something durable. 

Moaning softly, you said, “It’s been too long. All I’ve been able to do this summer is write long-winded stories about us, it seems.”

“And all I’ve been able to do is read them. And love them.”

You rolled me onto my stomach, leaned over me, and rubbed my back. Your voice deep and soft, you said, “I wanna stay here with you for an extra day or two.”

“Yeah?” I looked back at you, and you kissed my cheek.

“I’m working on it.”

“I’ll do the same.”

Within thirty minutes, Anton had you standing in the sea with the water up to your chest. The sun had risen, and I watched from upstairs (you acknowledged this with a salute). Your eyes obscured by dark, Lou Reed-like sunglasses, you lip-synched/actually sang the verses and chorus repeatedly and shivered a bit between takes. They had you change into a different shirt that you did not bother to button, and, ever the showman, you kept the crew laughing by pretending to order them around with a plummy British accent. This went on for about an hour, after which you ran back to the house, dripping wet and pulling a laughing Eve along with you.

“Nicely done, B,” I said the next time I saw you. Cecile had fixed a late breakfast of savory French toast topped with a perfectly-cooked poached egg for me, and I sat at the dining room table reading one of the many magazines we had subscribed to and allowed to pile up over the past year. You were in dry clothes once again--the same as before except with a leather blazer and those horrendous platform sandals you favor. You slumped into a chair beside me and then leaned over to adjust one of them. In doing so you revealed a strip of bare skin between your shirt and waistband. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to kiss it. But instead I looked at it lovingly. 

Finished with your sandal, you gazed up at me. The skin below your eyebrows is beginning to descend over your eyelids, casting shadows across your eyelashes that are actually quite flattering. Your eyes look as if they’ve been lined. Unintentional doe-eyes. 

“Having a good time, B?”

“Always.”

“Train in five minutes!” someone shouted a few rooms away. Eve shrieked from her room and within seconds she was pulling you out of the kitchen. 

“A special train just for us--let’s go!” 

“Yes, darlin’.”

You, Eve, Samantha, and the crew boarded the Nice-bound train that runs behind our house, and you were gone until about about 1:00. Meanwhile a sarong-clad Adam and I set up camp in the pool’s best deck chairs with a bevy of snacks, beverages, and things to read. We clinked our glasses together contentedly. Ali joined us a bit later, and together we soaked up the sunny, tranquil atmosphere while we could. Each of us heaved a sigh when we heard the train returning, bringing with it a rather high level of noise and activity that would not cease until 3:00 a.m.

Eve ran out to give us a report. “Mom. It was so much fun! Samantha was running next to the train, and she looked so beautiful, and she was like half-mermaid and half-person, like just a normal person wearing pants but sparkly mermaid stuff on top, and anyway she was crying and she can make herself cry just like that.”

“Very interesting, sweetheart.”

“And I got to sit next to her on the way back and she taught me how to do it, too!”

“Well, then let’s see,” Ali said, grinning back at Adam and me.

Eve looked into the middle distance and seemed to be in deep thought for a few seconds before she gave up. “I’m too happy to cry right now!”

Ali laughed. “Completely understandable. And how was your father?”

“He was fine. He was just...you know, he was Dad! Sitting there on the train singing the song. Anton says he’s narrating the story.”

“And what exactly is the story, Eve?” Adam asked. “I’m afraid the treatment Anton sent us was rather sketchy.”

“Basically? It’s _The Little Mermaid_ except she kind of hates Larry for turning her into a person, I think? We stopped somewhere and she kissed him and screamed at him and pushed him around and stuff. So they’re gonna break up and she’s gonna swim away. She’s a mermaid when she’s in the water and a person when she’s on land. I think that’s how mermaids work. But anyway! It was really fun.”

“We’re so glad you’re here, Eve,” I said. She clapped her hands and ran back to the house.

Ali rose from her chair saying, “I should set out more food. It never ends.” Adam and I followed her inside and did what we could to help. 

A nervous but smiling Larry grabbed a sandwich and talked on his cell phone, muttering things like, “I can’t believe I fookin’ said yes to this.”

You breezed in and plucked a cherry from the top of a bowl of fruit salad I was carrying over to the dining room table. “Our hero returns,” I said.

“All in a day’s work. I guess I’m at large until tonight.” You called to our besieged Anton, who was too busy to eat a proper lunch, “Just let me know if you need me.” He gave you a thumbs-up before heading down to the beach, accompanied by Larry.

Curious, you, Adam, and I joined the crew outside a bit later. We cheered as Larry pulled waterlogged suitcases and televisions out of the sea. Four crew members heaved a bathtub down to the waves, and Larry struggled to move it a fraction of an inch. “Put your back into it, love--it’s like you’re not even trying!” you yelled before dissolving into laughter. Larry flipped you off (well-deserved). Knowing his dealings with Samantha would justify a closed set, we retreated to the white room to further spy on him. 

We were approaching the house when Samantha emerged from the ground floor entrance, carried by three women. The sequins on her glorious costume reflected the light in a dazzling array of rainbow colors, and her impressive tail came close to dragging the ground. They paused, and you kissed her hand, saying, “Exquisite, flawless.” 

“Far more beautiful than anything we deserve.”

“Oh. Thank you both. Everyone has been so kind to me. Bono, your daughter is absolutely adorable.” 

As if on cue, Eve appeared on the second floor balcony, pointing and shouting, “Mermaid! My mermaid queen!” On the beach, every head turned, followed by whistles and applause.

Once upstairs, we pulled chairs over to an open, north-facing window and sat down. Anton had put some screens up around the tub, but we had no problem seeing what was going on. Samantha was placed in the tub, and she arched her back and posed gracefully in the sun as Anton shot her from a variety of angles.

“What a spectacular fucking image that’s gonna be--and with Anton shooting her, can you even imagine?”

I put my arm around you. “I certainly know what he can do with you, love.”

You looked at the sky wistfully. “Ahh, those days are far behind me, Edge.”

“I will always think you’re devastating, and you’re just going to have to face facts.” I kissed your face’s various perfections.

Larry walked over to the tub in a shirt that was “way more transparent than mine.” His next task was to carry Samantha in and out of the water. He lifted her with ease, and as they descended into the waves, he said something to her that caused her to throw her head back with gales of laughter.

“God, he looks good,” you said.

I moved from my chair to the floor. Settling between your legs, I looked up at you lovingly and said, “Larry has always been handsome, but you are the one everyone wants.”

“Oh, you.” Reluctant smile.

I rested my head on your lap and ran my hand up your thigh. “No. A long time ago we established that Larry is the beautiful one, Adam is the cool one, you are the sexy one, and I am the...smart one.”

“Fuck you, Edge. You’re so gorgeous I want to die.”

I shrugged. “Sorry, but that’s our dynamic, like it or not, the sexy one.”

You leaned over and said, “You should be that mermaid, and I should be on top of you in that tub.”

I chuckled. “I believe that’s Anton’s plan C if the first two don’t work out.”

“Go ahead and laugh, Edge. A video with you and me making out would be an instant sensation.”

“It would get people talking about the song, anyway.”

“Sex sells, Reg.” You kissed me, and all I wanted was more. You. All over me.

We caught our breath and noticed a frustrated Eve pacing on the balcony and trying to see what was happening. You got her attention and waved her up. Approximately two seconds later, she was in the white room with us, and I let her have my chair.

“Today is the best,” she said, sighing happily and watching Larry and Samantha walking in and out of the water. “I wanna do that one day.”

You gave me a knowing look; Eve’s dream of being a movie star was not exactly news. “Look at that face, Reg. This kid’s a star already.”

“Acting is more than just being a face, Dad.”

“Of course. It’s a lot of hard work. You’ll get a chance to be in plays at school this year, won’t you?”

“Yes! A fall one and a spring one.”

“Well, that will be excellent practice for you.”

Eve hummed a cheerful tune, and during a break in the filming, she asked, “Do you wish you were the one down there instead of Larry?”

“Honestly? Yes and no. I’m getting too old to be...I’ll say this: I wish we would’ve had this idea ten or fifteen years ago. Then I’d have been all about it. But we chose the right person for the job today. Larry looks like James Dean.”

“Larry looks like Aaron Carter, sort of. Like an old Aaron Carter.”

“Whoever that is.” 

Eve pointed at the beach. “Also they kind of match.”

“That’s true. They do match.” Larry took off his shirt and got into the tub. “Plus I didn’t feel like shaving the entire upper half of my body.”

“Eww!”

“That’s what Larry had to do.”

“He did not! He’s already like that, Dad!”

The two of you laughed at each other. 

I put my hand on your shoulder. “Your father looks like no one else on earth. Same with Samantha. They both have unusual faces.”

“She doesn't look like the mermaids you see in books and movies. She doesn’t even have long hair. But she makes you believe she’s a real one. Like everybody else got it wrong and this is how mermaids actually look.”

“And this one doesn’t look like the rock stars you see on TV. But he makes you believe everybody else got it wrong.”

“You’re such a mermaid, Dad.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“And you know what else? Your dad’s gonna be the one in the video everyone wants to see more of. He won’t even let them look at his eyes this time.” You chuckled, and I squatted beside you and stared at your left ear. “One time I was the star of a video, and whenever your dad popped into the frame, he was all anybody wanted to look at.”

Eve grinned slyly. “In love with my dad much?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She looked out the window again. “Wow. They are like totally kissing.”

“They certainly are. How about that?”

“Is Ann okay with this?”

“I assume he cleared everything with her first,” you said.

Eve considered this. “If you’re an actor, you’ve got to marry someone who can deal with your weird life.”

“Same thing if you’re a rock star.”

This part of the shoot continued for about an hour, by which time our stars’ skin was presumably pruney from the water. Anton seemed extremely pleased with his footage and called for a late afternoon siesta with supper on our own. Most of the crew walked down the beach to Edouard’s and other spots in Eze, while the band, Anton, Samantha, Eve, and Ali stayed at the house and picked on leftovers from lunch. Larry was relieved to be finished with the toughest part of the video. You spent an extended amount of time in your room on the phone (“America has been awake for a few hours now”) talking with people who were organizing a tour of the heartland for you and a handful of other activist-celebrities. 

I went down to the studio and did a number of run-throughs of _Electrical Storm_ , hoping this would make my fake-playing seem convincing for the cameras. I checked in with Morleigh, who was at the pharmacy picking up a prescription for Sian’s ear infection, and she was fine with me staying in Eze for another day or two. Then I changed into my costume, such as it was. Over the summer you had become fixated on the idea of me in an ordinary t-shirt and convinced Anton that the performance segment of the video would need “a pop of white.” So I put on everything I wore during the wedding reception, including your straw cowboy hat.

Once darkness fell, Anton took care of a few final scenes with Larry and Samantha: more tub kissing, some solo shots of a shuddering Samantha with fireworks behind her, and Larry delivering her back to the sea. About a third of Anton’s crew (who hadn’t done much that day) sprang into action and launched a couple of brief but dazzling firework displays that had a number of unseen locals cheering for the unusual Wednesday night spectacle. I stood beside you and watched miniature fireworks explode into glitter on the lenses of your impenetrable sunglasses. Arms crossed in front of your chest, you were uncharacteristically quiet as you took in the scene. 

“Since when do you chew gum, B?”

“Since I can’t smoke a cigarette. I’m trying to stop, anyway. Again.”

“Eightieth time’s the charm.”

You put your hand in your pocket. “Want some?”

“I’m fine, love.”

Meanwhile our director was everywhere at once, shooting Larry and his mermaid as quickly as he could. When it was over, Anton was joyous because of an unexpected juxtaposition he had captured with the fireworks. Larry and Samantha were equally giddy, and the crew applauded. “Little break! Band performance in one hour,” Anton announced. Samantha changed into a track suit, said her goodbyes, and left for Paris.

Eve was beside herself in the midst of all the excitement, but it was getting late, and explaining that it would become just another video shoot from then on, Ali convinced her to come inside. “Nothing you haven’t seen a hundred times before, sweetie.”

Knowing one hour meant more like ten minutes because they needed to set up our gear, make us look pretty, measure things, and deal with lights, I tapped your shoulder. “Follow me, Bono. Just for a moment.”

“Okay.”

I led you to the dark, walled garden, where the fireworks and lights were replaced with fireflies and a bewilderment of stars, and the din of the crew was replaced with the soft hum of a few nocturnal insects and tree frogs. “Baby,” I said, kissing you (grape-flavored gum? Oh B). Tightly wound, you exhaled for what must have been the first time in hours, and your mouth rearranged itself into a smile.

“This shoot...I’m not feeling it tonight. This is gonna drag. I just know it,” you sighed.

“Do you need a motivation?”

You took a step back and looked me over. “Sure, cowboy. I’ll bite.”

“I really wish you would.”

Your teeth grazed my neck. “What’s my motivation, Edge?”

“I miss it,” I whispered.

“What do you miss?” Your tongue licked my earlobe.

“I miss your cock.”

“What’s to miss? You already have an all-access pass.”

“I miss you fucking me. I miss you on top.”

A pause; a step back. “Oh god, Edge. Yeah?”

I took your hands. “I mean, it’s been a few years. And I was just thinking...why do we have to have these strictly-defined roles?”

“That’s a really good question.”

“Why do we have rules? Why can’t we do whatever we want?”

Exhaling, you said, “Like maybe one night I’ll fuck you, Edge, and the next night you’ll fuck me.”

“Why can’t we do both on the same night?”

“Fuck. Edge, yes.”

“I can stay another day or two. And I want you to fuck me. Please.” I knelt before you and kissed you, warm and constrained, through your black jeans. “That’s your motivation.”

I retrieved my guitar from the studio (giving us an opportunity to calm down a bit), and we returned to the set. “Hey Edge. And who’s this guy?” Larry grinned from behind his drum kit, pointing a stick at you.

“I am the singer,” you said imperiously.

“Singer, eh? I dunno anything about a singer. We’re a power trio. Sorry, man.”

“Hilarious,” you said, finding your mark on the ground.

“Oh, so you think you’re gonna stand there in the middle? Right in front of me? Adam?”

Adam smiled at you. “Nice to be in a complete band again, Bono. You’ve been missed.”

Anton was keen to shoot us with a very long lens that would compress the depth of the pebbled “stage” and create a claustrophobic effect. This, paired with his usual rough sensibility, would create the feel of a Velvet Underground video. Measurements were made, more equipment was set up, the band was fussed over, and lights were tested. Through it all, I caught you looking at me repeatedly with a satisfied grin. 

We played the song for at least an hour, just standing out there on the beach near the wall that ran along our property. You had your game face on--this was not a bright, peppy song. This was serious and intense business, and Anton spent the bulk of that time shooting you. Adam, Larry, and I were included occasionally as a sort of afterthought. Larry-experiment notwithstanding, you would always be the face of the band if Anton had anything to say about it. And you made certain of that.

The song’s lyrics had lost all meaning by the time we took a break around midnight. Anton played back some of the performance footage for us, and as much as we might have liked to have said, “Perfect. Just what we wanted. Goodnight everybody!”...it was all rather flat. 

“The energy is too static,” you said. “When the band appears, that’s the moment when you’ve got to shatter the glass, you know? And that’s not happening.”

I thought about the beauty of the fireworks. And the song’s title--of course--why not try to mimic lightning? “Do we have a strobe light? Could we make it seem like there’s lightning around us?” I asked.

“A strobe would do it. Or we could mimic a strobe.”

“Ten minutes!” Anton said, rounding up his crew.

“Follow me, Edge,” you said, walking back to the garden.

Once there, you turned to face me in the dim light. We knew we couldn’t mess up our clothing, hair, or faces (we had been scolded for doing so on countless other video shoots, and we did not wish to be killed by a crew who had been working for nearly twenty hours straight). Instead we stood as closely together as we could, our noses and mouths nearly touching. You took my hand and placed it over the fly of your jeans. I closed my eyes. “You want this, don’t you, love.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yes.”

“You want me to fuck you. Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Yeah.”

“Please, Bono. It’s been so long. I need it.”

“Yes you do.” Your warm breath on my face felt like the most delicate kisses, and we stood in silence for a while. Your hand caressed the back of my neck. “Tell me, Edge. How does being worshipped for an entire weekend sound to you?”

I moaned.

“Consider it done.”

The next three hours were a blur of repetition, fatigue, and sexual frustration under a lighting situation that simulated a migraine headache. I immediately regretted asking for a strobe light, and the stuttering faux-strobe solution the lighting people came up with illuminated us at annoyingly irregular intervals. But it enlivened the proceedings, and Anton was newly inspired by the way we appeared in his viewfinder. Since every take was wildly different visually, he shot us again and again. Anton played matador with his oversized lens, and as usual, you were a highly confrontational little bull. “You’re the camera,” you murmured to me between takes, and I watched you stalk me in the flashing blasts of light and dark. I couldn’t wait to have you all to myself.

“That’s a wrap,” a relieved Anton said at around 3:00. We were all too tired to be excited, and using the last remnants of energy we possessed, everyone staggered back to the house, found some kind of horizontal surface, and collapsed until noon.

I woke up with a smile on my face. The day was delightfully dreary, and in the distance I heard the sounds of equipment being loaded, car doors opening and closing, goodbyes being said, and engines starting up. I pulled out my laptop and was checking my email when you opened the door to the white room, holding a tray and wearing one of your pre-destroyed sweaters.

“The coast is clear, Edge. They’re gone. They’re all finally gone.” 

I set the computer aside, slumped down in the bed, and luxuriated in the sheets. “This day just gets better and better.”

“Alone at last,” you grinned. “Coffee? I also have a fine selection of leftover leftovers.”

“I fucking love you.”

As promised, you spent the weekend--technically a Thursday and Friday, but who’s counting?--worshipping me, and I worshipped you, and there were no rules, no roles, just two men doing whatever they wanted, whatever felt right, and we wanted it all and it all felt right. We were as voracious for each other as ever, and while our first gasping, overstimulated attempt didn’t last as long as it could have, we were both in tears from the violence of that initial release. The joy you derived from making me your object of desire made you that much more desirable to me, and you looked so beautiful, still the most beautiful man I have ever seen, inside and out, and still inexplicably in love with me. And the things you said, B. Christ, I can’t get them out of my head and it’s nearly eight months later.

_You’ve given me no time to plan this, I hope you know, but obviously now that you’ve had me, greedy darling, it’s my turn to have you. On your back. Yes, and you’re going to watch every bit of this unfold before your pretty green eyes, baby, and I suppose I should warn you that once I get started, there will be no stopping me, and I will most certainly fuck you in half, Edge, but you already know that, and that’s what you asked for last night in the dark. That’s what you begged for on your knees in front of my cock, love, and you sent a bolt of lightning right through my brain when you begged me to fuck you, and now I’m going to send it back through you. And I’ve got to say it’s particularly gratifying to know you still want it even though this is too long and it’s not even close to meeting your fetish requirements. No, for some reason you still want me to fuck you, and I don’t know if you’ve been pining for this for a long time or if that idea simply occurred to you last night as a way to placate me*, your overshadowed and pouting little peacock, and frankly I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter because either way you’re getting what you asked for, and oh you asked for it again and again, and look at you, you’re asking for it now, too, you gorgeous thing. And you’re getting it, baby, that’s right. Remember that? Remember how much you loved that? Remember how impossible it seemed until it finally started happening, and then it was easier, yes it was, oh god Edge, that’s right, just relax, the way you feel, it’s like it’s six years ago all over again, before all the doctors and babies and fathers and grief, and I’m a goddamn fighter and you’re a fucking angel and it’s us against the world and oh fuck Edge, you were powerless before me then and I’ll never forget that, just paralyzed with lust and I want it again, and now you’re just giving it to me, Edge, fuck, yes, just breathe for me, good, my god I’ve missed you, it’s so hard when I’m alone and we can’t, but we’re here and it’s now and I’m in my body I’m in it I’m in it and I’m in your body too and we’re one person we’re one person we’re just the same baby we are and Edge oh god oh Edge oh god_

My darling.

“I needed this.”

“I did too, Edge.”

“It’s too bad that clock keeps ticking away over there.”

“It was your idea to have a clock up here, remember?” You kissed the tip of my nose. “And if you need this again, you know, that’s why we bought a hotel.”

“I miss you when you’re not in Dublin. It’s not the same in the studio. Adam and Larry talk a good game, but we all feel your absence profoundly.” You looked up at the ceiling and inhaled. “And we know you’re away for a good reason. We do. We respect that. But it’s hard to be BonoandEdge without the Bono.”

“You.”

“You know what I mean. I miss that special telepathy we have. Adam will say something, and I’ll know exactly what look you’d shoot me in response, but you’re not there, and I just have to imagine it. And things progress so slowly without you. I mean, I don’t know if we’ll have anything to release next year. Or maybe even the year after that. We’re coping, but you are missed.”

“I know. This next couple of months should be alright, but then things will ramp up for me again.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s hard for me, too, Edge. We need more of this.” You put your arm around my shoulders, and I rested my head on your chest. I listened to you breathe, and after a while I could feel you smiling.

“What?”

“Remember that pearl you found on the beach that you gave me? Maybe that’s what this is,” you said, your hand gesturing in the air. “Maybe all of our longing and frustration is the grain of sand that irritates the oyster and causes it to make a pearl. And our pearl is the chemistry we have when we’re together. Our pearl is the fact that this never gets old, even though we’ve known each other for decades.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell you the grain of sand is a myth, and the oyster is usually irritated by a small organism that invades its shell. And I just looked this up: the odds of someone finding a pearl in an oyster are one in twelve thousand. The odds of me ever finding another person like you are astronomical.

“If you need me, I promise I will drop everything, Edge. Just ask and I will find a way. I know you won’t ask me because you’re too selfless. But you’ve always been here for me, and I do not take that for granted. I want you to ask me.”

“Okay.” I looked up at you. “Sorry to bring everything down.”

“Don’t ever be sorry. I love you more than anyone.”

I kissed your shoulder and cupped my hand over the other. The fine lines in your face may betray your years (or at least a need for sunscreen), but the skin that’s been covered by clothing hasn’t aged. These are the shoulders I remember seeing when we were in our teens. “I always wished I had shoulders like yours.”

You stretched a bit, making them seem even broader. “What a sweet thing to say.”

“I noticed them when we first became friends at school. One day we were standing in line at the cafeteria, and I was behind you. You were wearing a t-shirt, and your shoulders were too big for it. Like, the seam where the sleeve attaches, that line? They were extending out past it. And that was something I was never able to do. Any shirt that fit my torso meant that the shoulder seam would be partway down my arm.”

“Well, Edge, you have to remember you were much younger than me. And eventually you grew some shoulders, too.” You kissed the top of my head.

“The cafeteria ladies doted on you.”

“Well, they undoubtedly knew about my situation at home and felt sorry for me.”

“Maybe, but you had that star quality even then. That dazzling smile. And you liked to chat them up.”

“Ah yes. What can I say?”

“They always gave you the biggest piece of everything. The prettiest square of cake. ‘Have a good afternoon, love.’ And then they started giving me the good stuff too once they figured out that we were friends.”

“Our first little fan club. Your memory is phenomenal, Edge.”

“I imagined you as a baby in the womb asking for big servings of everything that was available to you. Big shoulders, big eyes, big nose, big mouth, big chest, big hair, big neck, big thighs, big--”

“Ha! Yes to all of those.”

“Height was not on the menu, apparently.”

“Who needs height when you can have all this?” you said, running your hand down your side with a flourish.

I touched one of your laugh lines and moved up to kiss it. “This wrinkle is a little deeper. That’s one thing these long absences have going for them. They allow me to see changes more easily.”

“Yes, time continues to stomp all over my face. I wish I could still be that boy whose shoulders you obsessed over.”

“Oh, you’re still that boy. And I love watching you change. It’s a gift. It’s beautiful.”

We kissed, and I thought about our shared history that has been embroidered with so many stories. We work together and travel together more more than any couple I could name. 

What will our future hold? Will we still have a band in fifteen years? Whatever happens, I know I will love you. Forever my muse, forever my life.

 

*I’m not telling you.


	14. Lavender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a companion to my previous one, except this time it's Edge who is having a bit of a crisis, and it's Bono's turn to help. Email is set in July 2004; main part is spring/summer 2003.
> 
> I turned to U2 by U2 when researching this chapter. In it the band talked extensively about the trouble they had when recording How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. The scene where Adam and Larry said nothing actually happened, and Larry described what he said during the second round of problems as "soul-destroying." Wherever possible, I used direct quotes. And added a whole lot of my own BS, obviously.
> 
> "The mirthless laughter of the damned" is from The Simpsons. 
> 
> You can watch the incredible "What's Opera, Doc?" here:  
> https://vimeo.com/115773980
> 
> Hat tip to Beyonce’s song Partition. I can’t think of anything else when I am forced to write about it, and that’s kind of great.
> 
> The use of a certain mathematical term near the end is fan service, plain and simple. Love you PJ. <3
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and commenting, and happy holidays to all who celebrate.

_“Oh my god, is that a bathysphere?” you asked, crossing the bizarre industrial wasteland Anton had dropped us into, in Lisbon, of all places. It was populated with any number of hulking, rusted oddities, some of which may have been a hundred years old. I thought the place seemed dangerous, but you were clearly in your element. I tagged along as you jogged over to the ancient, pock-marked metal orb that was nearly twelve feet tall._

_“Hey, Captain Nemo, wait for me,” I called, laughing. You scrambled up some protuberances on the back of the bathysphere to climb on top of it. And there you stood, hands on your hips and legs spread, like some kind of superhero. (Which you are. Christ, Edge. Your body looks spectacular. I simply cannot get enough of it.) Adam and Larry ambled over, and Anton snapped away._

_Later that afternoon, you repurposed a rubber band you had found on one of the floor mats from the van that brought us there. You led me behind a shed, pulled my hair back into the world’s tiniest ponytail, and secured it with said rubber band. You kissed the back of my neck, turned me around, and admired your handiwork._

_“Having a good time, Edge?”_

_“I fucking love it here.”_

_Well, Edge, Anton just sent me an email with some of his favorite shots from that photo session, and the ones of you are astonishing. You look intelligent and beautiful as always, but I can also detect a certain brutish carnality that frankly brings me to my knees. It’s strange because you look like no one else, but that shot of you without a hat, looking into the distance with a confident defiance betrayed only by your eyebrows...my god. Your peerless arms, the magnificent geometry of your head, the stubble on your jaw so rough I can almost feel it when I touch my computer screen...again I have to drift off mid-sentence with ellipses. It reminds me of why I find you attractive, certainly, but there is something so universally masculine about it that I can understand why I find men in general attractive as well. It reminds me of why I am this way._

_Well. I could write several hundred additional fawning words about you, but I’d rather do it face to face. Chest to chest. Mouth to mouth. A private celebration is in order, obviously, because at long last..._

_...the album is finished the album is finished the album is finished the album is finished for the love of christ Edge the album is finally fucking finished._

_So I wrote the following for you. I would like to take you back to this time last year, when we were at our wits’ end with this motherfucking bomb. And we can smile about it now, but at the time it was terrible (he said, quoting Morrissey, who probably hates him but no matter)._

_Edge. We’re done. Let’s go join the circus again, love._

_B._

\-----

Maybe I should have become a painter. I’d do it for the delicious (and I’m sure potentially hazardous) fumes alone: turpentine, linseed oil, gesso, and this paint, Edge, this beautiful butter-soft black. My insatiable brushes absorb it with greed before passing it on to a pristine white canvas that simply can’t get enough of it either. But painting is a solitary activity, and I wouldn’t get to spend my days and nights hassling you, would I? Still, I see the appeal.

I had set up a makeshift painting studio for myself in the guest house, guided by Guggi, whose expertise proved invaluable. He mixed several concentrations of the black paint in tin cans that once housed tomatoes--“because Picasso used to do this”--and advised me on other studio equipment. 

“Do you have a beat up old couch you could put along this wall?”

“Beat up? Old?”

“Never mind. I’ll find one for you. Also you’ll need a terrible portable stereo.”

“Huh.”

“I’ll add it to the list. No art studio is complete without one.”

Tasked with creating sixty-four paintings for Gavin’s _Peter and the Wolf_ project, I had foolishly waited around for inspiration to strike instead of simply doing the job when I was asked. Even though Jordan and Eve had helped me with some of the ideas, a deadline was looming and panic was beginning to set in.

“How big should these canvasses be?” I asked.

“Not to be gauche, but how much did that jacket cost?”

“This? I’m not sure. It’s Alexander McQueen, so…”

“So several thousand.”

“Probably. Awfully gauche of you to ask, Guggi.”

“An average painter would be rolling in art supplies for a year or more at that price. I’d advise you to work big. I know a guy who can build the canvases.”

“Why should I work big?”

“You can afford it: their construction, housing them, their transport, the bullshit of framing them, and so on. Also a large canvas suggests confidence. It provides the illusion of credibility.”

I chuckled. “Christie’s anticipates that whatever I paint will fetch several hundred thousand dollars for the hospice foundation.”

“You magnificent bastard.”

So after spending a week with politicians, I was in heaven once I got started: splashing paint around, contemplating my work from the couch, and listening to the The Stooges (Prokofiev is lovely, but there’s only so much of that one can take). Guggi had given me the following advice for my “Basquiat lite-- _extremely_ lite” paintings: variety of line, make the negative space sing, and red is merely an accent. Red is for dessert. So I was doing that, and I entered a blissful realm of pure creativity where I frequently lost track of the world. My phone would start ringing, but most of the time I barely noticed.

That’s why I was oblivious when you dropped in unannounced and watched me painting a wolf with X-crossed eyes for I don’t know how long. I didn’t even notice when you slowly reduced the volume on Guggi’s tragic stereo to nothing, inserted a CD of your own, and began increasing the sound gradually until my artistic fog lifted. _I don’t remember this Patti track… No wait, that’s got to be Edge_

I spun around, dropped my paintbrush on the floor, and ran to you. “Edge, this is you!”

“I said I couldn’t wait.”

I took your face in my hands and kissed you, leaving a faint black smudge under your cheekbone, and led you to the couch, where we listened to your brilliant demos horizontally. With you on top where you belong. 

“This is the one,” you told my clavicle as The Riff That Needs No Introduction cut through the air like sexy red acid. 

“I can see it,” I said, my eyes wide. You knew what I meant. Sometimes when I hear one of your ideas, my mind immediately fills in the gaps and builds imaginary sonic structures above it, and the end product seems close enough for me to touch. “Your perfect monster, my god.”

You beamed at me like a proud parent. “I don’t know where it came from, but here it is.” I hummed an infant melody over it, and the two became fast friends while your teeth got started on my neck. Before you left, I made a call to the Clarence and reserved the Garden Terrace Suite for us for the next night. You deserved it.

We met Larry and Adam the following afternoon at HQ. The first real indication of spring was in the air, and you opened some windows in the big room. They arrived together and sat across from you and me at the table. All of us were eager to get on with recording the final two-thirds of the album. “So this is what I came up with when I was in L.A.,” you said modestly, holding up your CD. Forever your hype man, I told Adam and Larry, “I heard these demos last night, and this man has surpassed himself yet again.” They smiled indulgently.

“Let them decide for themselves, B.”

“I swear to god the Edge is on fire.” 

You raised your eyes to the heavens theatrically, and we listened to your work. I watched your face as the fledgling songs flew around the room, and every now and then I’d grab your knee or say things like, “Oh, this is stunning.” 

Everything was great until you and then I realized that it was quiet on the other side of the table. Too quiet. Adam was examining his fingernails, and Larry was looking at his shoes. When the last demo ended, their silence was deafening. Larry gave us a blank stare and pushed his chair back with a harsh wood-on-ceramic whine, and Adam shot you a quick, apologetic glance. They got up and left without saying a word, leaving the two of us dumbfounded. 

You laughed in disbelief. “What the fuck was that?”

I joined you. “What the fuck _was_ that? I’ve half a mind to go after them and kick their arses. Jesus Christ!”

“I mean, who _does_ that?”

“I guess our beloved rhythm section does that now.”

We laughed again. Ahh, the mirthless laughter of the damned. This was followed by a volley of increasingly despondent _fuck_ s. Baffled, you got up and closed the windows, and looking back at me sadly, you asked, “Still wanna go to the hotel?”

“Edge, we need to go to the hotel. Now more than ever.”

We arrived in separate cars, and when I opened the door to our room, I saw you standing on the terrace and gazing down at Temple Bar. For a moment I imagined how much easier your creative life would have been had you become a solo artist. Of the four of us, if anyone could have done it, it would have been you. I saw you alone in your home studio, happily recording your guitar parts along with bass, drums, and vocals of your own, a one-man band answerable to nobody but yourself. I put my arm around your waist and looked down, too. “If someone would’ve told me when you and I were teenagers running around down there that someday we’d own this place, I wouldn’t have believed them.”

I kissed your cheek. “I would have.”

“Feel like getting drunk?” you asked, pointing at a bottle of Kilbeggan on the nearby table. 

“It’s like we’re the same person sometimes,” I smiled, nodding in the general direction of an identical bottle I had brought up from the bar and placed beside the television. We went inside, where I rounded up a couple of tumblers and made a toast. “To Adam and Larry!”

“Rejecting our ideas since 1976.” You downed your drink, and I poured another one for you. “It’s so depressing when they don’t get it,” you said, stretching out on the bed and studying the amber liquid. 

I joined you. “They hear things differently. They always have. You and I can imagine your ideas as finished songs. They hear riffs on top of drum loops. It’s rare when they like anything during this phase; you know that. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” You rolled onto your side, facing away from me, so I spooned you. Addressing your earring, I whispered, “Your ideas are brilliant, love. I believe in all of them.”

“I thought at least one or two would have been undeniable.”

“I’ve no doubt that your work will find its way into songs. We’ll just have to push a little harder. We’ll make them see.”

You exhaled. Your shoulder dropped. My poor misunderstood genius. It’s simultaneously demoralizing and inspiring to watch you humble yourself in service of the will of the group and our fucked-up creative process. Again, I wished you were free to record every song your fertile imagination could produce with no one standing in your way.

I kissed your shoulder and listened to you breathe. I wanted to take care of you. _Love is touch, touch is love,_ John Lennon reminded me. My hand skimmed over your arm, from the sleeve of your t-shirt where the hair was relatively sparse and fine down to your forearm and wrist where it was soft and lush. Your arms are so sexy, Edge. Perfect male arms. Where would we be without your arms and your hands? I bent down so I could take your middle finger in my mouth, and your thumb stroked my jaw. “I wanna see that little slide of yours.”

You smiled for the first time in quite a while. “It’s so cool, B.”

I held you and we were quiet, but I knew you were in problem-solving mode. I wanted to get inside your mind and watch it work. I imagined countless tiny Edges in lab coats dashing about with clipboards and headsets, little mechanic Edges swarming around red glowing neurons and making adjustments, a boys choir of Edges singing unknown songs, and oh look, there’s a dozen Edge monks kneeling at the Altar of Bono, how touching…

“I feel like just watching some TV, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure, Edge, go right ahead.” 

You flipped from channel to channel in search of something mindless and landed on a Road Runner cartoon. “I love the way these were drawn, but the story’s always the same.”

“True.” The Road Runner ate its little pile of seed, looked at us smugly, and beeped. “A real snooze, Edge.” 

Next cartoon: _What’s Opera, Doc?_. “Oh. Now this one is the apex of animation.”

“Without question.”

We refreshed our drinks and occasionally sang along as we watched Elmer hunting Bugs, falling in love with a she-Viking Bugs on an obese white horse, and raging and ultimately killing Bugs with lightning amid lavender and pink abstract surroundings.

“Fucking insane.”

“Perfection.”

“I remember crying the first time I saw this as a kid.”

“Hell, Edge, I’m semi-upset now.” 

You laughed and kissed me. “I mean, can you imagine the pitch meeting for that one?”

“‘Yeah, so it’s my take on Wagner. Opera. Fudd versus Bugs. Impossible landscapes and stupid colors. Ballet. Bugs is in drag for most of it. Legitimate gay love scene with original song. And Fudd--so homophobic is Fudd that he kills Bugs, and there’s a tacked-on joke at the end, but you’ll see his dead body. It’ll be hilarious.’”

“Heh,” you chuckled. “And then Larry and Adam stare at the floor for a few seconds and walk out.”

“Exactly. The guy…?”

“Chuck Jones.”

“Chuck Jones had to fight for that one. You just know it, right? And all the fighting paid off because that’s what it takes to make a masterpiece.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not over. It’s not over at all, Edge.” I glanced at you knowingly, smiled, and raised an eyebrow. I tugged on your shirt, but you still looked kind of blue. 

“I’m sorry. I’m just too…”

“Inside your head?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you dare be sorry, love. It’s fine. No pressure. I’m just glad to be with you tonight. We both would’ve been worthless at home.”

“True.”

“Let’s watch some cartoons, order some food, and get wasted. What do you say?”

“I love you.”

Larry called about an hour later while you were taking a shower, followed by Adam not long after that. Both began with, “I’m sorry. Is he okay?” Larry had approached the situation with an _if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all_ sensibility. 

I proclaimed this attitude bullshit and let him know how bewildered you were. “Sometimes saying nothing can be confusing and cruel,” I told him, and he agreed and apologized for that. 

Adam was merely going along with Larry, who had taken a hardline approach: if they didn’t instantly feel that spark with a demo, they’d move on to the next one. And then they ran out of demos. “You’re acting as if Edge is merely an idea machine, and you can just keep pushing buttons until you get something you understand. We can’t take him for granted.”

“We don’t. We certainly don’t. I’m sorry for making him feel that way.”

“He’s more confused than anything else.”

We agreed to listen again with fresh ears, along with questions and feedback, the following morning. _And those eclairs Edge likes but are a pain in the ass to get because they’re way across town, you know the ones, Larry._

Things returned to normal as far as the four of us were concerned, but that initial meeting set the tone for the rest of the spring and most of the summer. And I’m sure you won’t mind if I gloss over the gory, protracted breech birth of the next round of songs, right, Edge? We enlisted Chris Thomas to assist us, but we alienated him almost immediately. You’d think someone who helped Roxy Music and the Sex Pistols deliver their best work would be a good fit for what we were trying to do, but we wore him out. He couldn’t believe we managed to record anything at all given our ridiculous methods. “Nothing is ever prepared!” he exclaimed with exasperation as we frittered away one day after another. 

I could tell you were embarrassed--the top student in a group project tasked with carrying your hapless contemporaries along. “We’re a different creature,” I told Chris feebly, as even a week with the London Symphony Orchestra couldn’t get us off the ground. I was away from time to time, and whenever I returned you seemed more and more overwhelmed. But somehow songs were getting finished. 

Making matters worse for us: the clock was ticking. Paul had informed us that anything other than a fourth quarter release would be out of the question. As August rolled around, we had amassed an appropriate number of hard-won songs and needed to make a decision. We could continue to work like mad polishing it for a couple of months, or...not. 

We asked Jimmy to listen to the album and give us his opinion. In typical Iovine fashion, he said, “It’s done. Release it,” as we huddled around the phone. When Adam and Larry heard this, I could sense their unease. Again: that awful silence.

I took a deep breath. “What.”

Larry glanced out the window at the bright afternoon sun and shook his head with regret, looking for all the world like a Bernini angel about to drop the hammer on some unfortunate sinner. I took your cold hand. “There’s no magic,” he said quietly, draining all the air from the room. Adam nodded. A dog barked in the distance.

“Fuck,” you muttered, releasing my hand and exiting the studio.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said angrily. “ _Maybe._ ” I followed you to your car.

You started the engine--blasting The Damned--and yelled _FUCK_ over the noise. I climbed in and joined you in another round of _fuck_ s. “God _damn_ it, B,” you said, gasping. Seeing you in distress brought tears to my eyes, and I put my arms around you as we tried to calm down. 

I lowered the stereo’s volume. “We’re going to Eze to lick our wounds. Now. Not open for discussion.”

You blinked and exhaled. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go. I need to be away from...this.”

“Leave everything to me, Edge.”

I turned the music back up and got out of the car so you could continue to curse. I put on my murder face (not difficult) on the off-chance that anyone might approach us and made several phone calls to people who set things in motion. _Might as well throw my weight around while I still can,_ I thought. Then I called Ali, who wasn’t particularly surprised by the development, and Morleigh, who had been justifiably worried about you.

“I know this delay is not what he wanted, but I don’t think I could bear watching him burn out even more,” she said with a sigh.

“Thanks, love.”

“Take care of our man, B.”

“I’ve got a plan,” I said, my brain still working on the plan. I heard some unfamiliar noises in the background. “Where are you, Morleigh?”

“Oh, we’re at an appointment with Sian’s pediatrician. She’s got a cough.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Doctor’s not worried. Just one of those childhood bugs.”

“Hi Bono!” Sian called out.

“Tell her I’m blowing her a kiss. I’ll let Edge know she’s okay, and we will return before you know it. I’ll bring him back in better shape than he’s in now.”

“Good luck, and keep me posted, please.”

“Of course.”

We were in the air before the end of the hour. You were quiet as we settled into the jet’s (honesty? sumptuous) leather seats. “I don’t advocate swallowing your anger, Edge. But if you could just hold onto it for a couple of hours, I’ve figured out the best possible site for a freak out, if everything goes the way I want it to. And guess what? I always get my way.”

“Except this afternoon.”

“Except this afternoon. Try to sleep, Reg. I know you’re utterly exhausted.”

“Okay. I’ll try.” 

I pulled a pad of paper and a pen from my bag. Objective: to rattle off a seething note I had no intention of sending to Larry re: magic, as a sort of literary rage exercise. Posh fountain pen in hand (thanks, Senator Helms; Edge can’t stand you), I looked up at you and was pleased to see your dear, slack-jawed face gently snoring. I rose and wordlessly instructed our small crew that you were not to be disturbed under any circumstances under penalty of death. And away we flew to Nice.

Once there, I asked our driver a couple of questions that were “easy, no problem, Mr. Bono; my brother in-law will be happy to oblige.” 

“I’m getting my way, the Edge,” I informed you as I joined you in the back seat and raised the partition. I knew that once you awakened, the thought of a year-long album delay would hit you hard. “C’mere,” I said softly, and you put your head in my lap and looked up at my face forlornly. “I’m so sorry, love,” I said, stroking the longish stubble below your cheekbones that led to the softer beard, which incidentally is a knockout look for you, and I hope it continues. I mean, it makes me think about...things. Sir. But what was I doing, lusting over my best friend while he gazed at me with such a tender and melancholy expression?

“It seems like we’re going the wrong way,” you said, watching the unfamiliar trees and telephone lines.

“Just a little side trip. Remember? I’m taking you someplace where we can explode.”

“Got it.”

A bit later I could smell it seeping through the car’s windows: clean, bright, soothing, more male than female. I looked out the window and saw a field with row after row of plush lavender glowing in the golden-hour sunlight. We were at aromatherapy ground zero. The car began to slow down, and you lifted your head and gaped at it with me. Then you started to chuckle. “You’ve dropped us into a Thomas Kinkade painting, haven’t you?”

I lowered the partition. “If you could just stop over there and come back in about thirty minutes…?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Are you sure your brother in-law won’t mind if a couple of men are shouting under that tree?”

“Not at all. It’s an excellent spot to, uh, blow off smoke?”

“Steam.”

“Ahh. Blow off as much steam as you like, Mr. Bono. Mr. The Edge.”

We got out and walked along one of the narrow dirt paths that ran between the thigh-high rows of lavender...shrubs? I guess you could call them shrubs. The mounds were planted so closely together they collectively resembled long purple caterpillars patrolling the countryside. The happiest bees imaginable gorged themselves on the delicate violet blooms, and as we walked farther into the field, the scent nearly knocked us over. The lavender had been baking in the sun all day, and as it began to set, the blooms turned shades of lilac and pink. The scene was so ridiculously beautiful it bordered on parody. 

You noticed a couple of rogue poppies growing in the lavender and touched their blazing petals affectionately. Once we were beneath a tree whose existence seemed to be for picturesque reasons only, I said, “Okay, Edge. The time is now. Let the universe know what you think.”

“Fuck!” you yelled. I joined in. “God damn it, Larry!” you added.

“‘It’s not fucking magic.’ What the fuck, Larry?” I kicked a big rock and regretted it immediately.

You yelled at a cloud, “Fuck it, Adam! Make that face one more time. Fuck!”

“Shit. This goddamn band!”

“You beg me to play rock for twenty years, and when I do--fuck!”

“Edge: I’m Larry. Give me a shove.”

“Okay. Fuck!” You actually did it.

I fell on my ass, and we both started laughing. You extended an arm to help me up, but I pulled you down with me. “Awfully sexy when you’re screaming at fake Larry.”

“You’re pretty cute yourself, B.”

We continued to laugh. You had the gall to tickle me, you evil thing, and this devolved into unfocused kissing. Then focused kissing. Your tongue. I almost forgot the reason why we were there. 

“Fuck,” I whispered.

“Fuck,” you growled.

“Tonight?”

“Yes, baby.”

The sun had slipped beneath the purple horizon. We dusted ourselves off and walked back to the road, where our driver met us several minutes later. “A gift for you, from the bees here,” he said, handing us a couple of jars of lavender honey the color of liquid sunshine. He also gave us a shopping bag filled with bunches of lavender.

“How wonderful. Thank you,” you said.

“Thank you, bees!”

Back in the car, I opened my jar, stuck my finger in the honey, and sucked it off. “What?” 

You shook your head at me fondly. “One of your oddest seduction techniques.”

“Is it working?”

“It always does.”

“Want some? It’s surprisingly mild. You might think the lavender would be overpowering, but it’s actually quite subtle.”

You sampled it. “It pairs nicely with a Bono finger.”

“Oh yes. That’s the way a true connoisseur prefers to eat it.”

The dreamy, post-sunset sky eventually matched our flowers. Your skin looked beautiful as the light shifted from gold to pink to lavender to blue, and I removed my sunglasses to admire it accurately. I continued to feed us a little too much honey, and as we approached Eze, I lowered the partition again. “Excuse me--could you please stop at the church? As close as you can get to it, anyway? We won’t be long.”

“Of course. Take your time.”

I turned to you. “You need to see this place, Edge.”

“Good idea.”

Without your hat, you could have been any achingly handsome professor of Medieval architecture, and sans glasses I was your unexceptional Irish research assistant. We walked along the twisted and shadowy stone corridors that led to the golden church, whose bell tower was just tall enough for the sunset to kiss with rosy light.

A handful of visitors sat in the pews, and I slid into the one next to the portrait sculpture of Jesus that resembled you, and I pointed this out. You shrugged and took on his weary expression, which was not much of a stretch, and I nodded with great satisfaction.

You took in the church’s gilded interior--gorgeous but too over-the-top for your taste. I wished Eze had a church that matched your spirit better, something with pure, clean lines, and then I remembered the white room. Our church.

You took my slightly sticky hand, and I was about to whisper something when I saw that your eyes were closed and your head was bowed. You were praying. My love. I joined you.

An indeterminate amount of time passed before we were interrupted by a soft, feminine gasp. I opened my eyes, expecting to greet a fan, but I returned the gasp. You looked up. Accompanied by her daughter Camille, a smiling Mme. Rousseau stood before us, regal in head-to-toe red. “My dear boys,” she whispered in English.

We followed Mme Rousseau and Camille outside--very slowly; she walked with some difficulty--and received kisses. She touched our faces with her precious hands and wiped away a couple of tears with a handkerchief embroidered with lilacs. She explained in French (and her daughter translated when necessary) that she still worked at her little shop occasionally. Camille had taken over its operation, but Mme. Rousseau liked to sit near the door and greet customers. She didn’t need to, but she thanked us profusely for our financial support.

“The cards and the treats you send us are more than anything we deserve,” I said. 

She took your hands in hers and looked into your eyes. “Why are you sad, dear?”

You looked down. “I was praying for patience,” you told Camille, who translated. 

“He is the most patient man I know,” I said, putting my arm around you.

Mme. Rousseau caressed her daughter’s face and looked at the first stars in the night sky. “I was praying for time.” Camille nodded at us sadly. And then it was our turn to wipe away tears. We embraced this beautiful woman, her body as fragile as a bird’s, and we stood together for a long time.

“God bless you, love,” I said.

“My dear boys.”

Shaken, we returned to the car and held hands the rest of the way home, looking out at the evening sky and thinking about our friend.

As we pulled up to the house, I noticed the lights in the kitchen were on, and Cecile’s face glanced at us through the window. She was undoubtedly in the midst of fixing a meal. 

“I smell something divine,” I called as we climbed the stairs to the kitchen. “And now I see someone divine,” I said, rounding the corner to the stove. I kissed Cecile’s garlic-scented hand, and you kissed her cheek. “What are you making for us, goddess?”

Cecile shook her head. “Bonsoir, mes amours. C'est de la bourride. Fish stew à l'aïoli.” She dumped halibut and shrimp into a fragrant yellow broth, and the two of us swooned.

“Merci beaucoup, Cecile,” you said, offering her a bundle of lavender. She smiled and looked at you appraisingly--I had told her over the phone that we (but mostly you) were having a bad day. 

“The Edge va bien,” I said. “He’s getting there, anyway.”

Cecile returned to work, and we talked about Mme Rousseau. While she was sad about her friend’s decline, Cecile told us how much she admired her unconventional and fascinating life. “Quelle vie.”

The fish cooked quickly, and she thickened the stew with aioli before bringing it to the table along with a baguette and a salad. I opened a bottle of Riesling. Explaining to us that the dish was a favorite from her days as a student in Marseille, she sat down and ate with us at our insistence. Between bites of her glorious creation, I explained our troubles in the studio and how hard it was to get inspired, and she nodded sympathetically. We were in Eze for a change of scenery, and maybe that would help us figure out what to do next.

Lifting a finger, Cecile rose from the table and stood next to a wall near the living room. She pointed at a couple of other walls. “Vous êtes riche. Pourquoi n'as-tu pas de l'art sur les murs?”

I laughed. “She wants to know why a couple of rich losers like us don’t have art on the walls.”

“A good question!” you said with a grin. “Ehm...esthétique minimaliste?”

Her disdainful response rivalled you at the top of your eye-rolling game, and we laughed as she sat back down. “Vous devriez avoir de l'art par des artistes que vous aimez.”

“Yes. We should have art by artists we love. Who do we love, Edge?”

“Oh. Rothko. Do you think we could get a Rothko?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell gonna try to get one for you now, Edge, how about that? Rothko, Cecile?” Her jaw dropped. “You know who I like? Helen Frankenthaler. Julian Schnabel took me to a retrospective of hers at MoMA a couple of years ago.”

“Oui. Femmes artistes vont inspirer. Käthe Kollwitz. Faith Ringgold. Lee Krasner. Louise Bourgeois!”

“Are you making a list, Reg?” 

I told Cecile that I had been painting recently--naive and self-taught, certainly, but I loved the incredible sense of freedom I felt.

Tears filled Cecile’s eyes. She took our hands, and looking slowly from your face to mine, she said carefully in English, “You have given me the freedom to paint.”

I blinked. “You are an artist, Cecile?” She nodded. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

She explained that she was a classically-trained painter. For most of her life she had worked as a cook and housekeeper, relying on employers like us for a steady income and painting when she could. But in recent years, our financial support had made it possible for her to paint full-time. I translated this for you, and we looked at her with awe.

“Time is running out. Too many things to paint. I do not wait for inspiration. I do the work. Get it out. Let it breathe.”

I shook my head. “We want one of your paintings.”

“Yes. We do.”

She nodded humbly, her hands over her heart. Our creative problems seemed trivial in comparison, and we were extravagantly blessed to have them.

After stashing some leftovers into containers and placing them in the refrigerator for us, Cecile kissed our cheeks and bid us goodnight. You went upstairs and called Morleigh, and I checked in with Ali. I was finishing off another glass of wine and thinking about the state of our walls when you joined me.

“Let’s enjoy what’s left of the summer, what do you say?” I asked, lifting my chin towards the pool outside. “I asked them to fill it today, and it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“Sure.” 

I put my arm around you. “By the way, in case you were wondering, I’ve figured out a strategy for what we should do.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m gonna be fifty percent more magical. Problem solved.”

“You know what? Me too. In fact, I’m gonna be...fucking incandescent.”

“Just you wait and see. There will be rabbits in hats and sleight of hand,” I said with a grin. “I’m gonna put Larry in a box and saw him in half and make Adam disappear.”

“I don’t know why we didn’t think of that before.”

The sky was dark, but the air was still warm, and when you turned on the pool’s lights, the water’s turquoise glow was otherworldly. We took off our clothes, and you got in first. I was just about to join you when I noticed my phone had racked up a number of messages since we left Dublin.

“Let’s see. Two from Adam, and three from Larry? Can you believe that? I’m just gonna call him,” I said, finding Larry’s number.

He sounded more relieved than annoyed when he answered, even though it was late, and I had called after his “official cut-off” hour. You came over as I put him on speaker, and I dangled my legs in the water. 

“Hi Larry. We just had to...get away.”

He exhaled. “I’m so sorry, you guys. I know that must have been...soul-destroying to hear.”

I sighed. “It must have been hard for you to say.”

“Are you okay?”

“Let’s put it this way: I’ve never heard Edge say ‘fuck’ so many times in one day. At least not in this context.”

You laughed. Adorable eye-crinkles.

“Did you hear that, Larry? Progress is being made,” I continued. “But we’re still kind of reeling, truth be told.”

“Yeah. Us, too.”

I held the phone away from my face and gave it a wan smile. “Any ideas?”

“Well, Adam and I were talking. If we’re gonna have to wait another whole year to release it, I thought maybe we should all just cool down for a bit and recover. I know Edge needs a break more than anyone. Then maybe we could regroup in September and bring in someone who actually gets us.”

“Like Steve?” you asked.

“That’s who we were thinking about.”

I looked at you, and you nodded. “That could work,” I said. “At least this way we’ll have a year to...let it breathe.”

“We still want to use the songs we have,” Larry said. “We’re not going back to square one. But we need to be a band and work together. Maybe come up with some new ideas.”

“Somehow we always do,” you said.

I looked at you, and you kissed my knee. After a pause, Larry asked quietly, “Is it still fun? Can we still have fun? I mean, even when it’s tough, working with the three of you is a blessing. It’s the joy of my life.”

I caressed your cheek. “Ours, too.”

“Of course it is, Larry. It’s still fun,” you said.

We didn’t realize it, but someone had been spying on us, and he padded over to my side on his little cat feet. “Talk to you later, Larry, okay? An old friend of ours has just dropped by.” 

“Hello, little Peach Boy,” you said gently. He tentatively walked over to the side of the pool and the two of you butted heads, an act so cute I demanded he repeat it with me.

“He’s a little Peach Man now. So distinguished.” I scratched his head with my dry hand. I did some math. Eleven.

“One might even call him spry.”

“Amazing how animals don’t age the way people do. He looks the same.”

“But he’s probably about sixty in human years. Sweetheart.” He butted your head again. I kissed both of your foreheads and slipped into the pool with you. Peach Boy looked at us, closed his eyes slowly, and then he heard something in the darkness and walked away.

“Oh my god, Edge. What if…?”

“I’m sure we’ll see him again, love.” You embraced me. “I feel bad for not even asking. How are you, B?”

I shrugged. “I can’t help feeling like this is mostly my fault, being gone all the time.”

“Baby. You’re doing important work.” I was happy to hear you say that, but it fell a little flat. 

“I really need to be around more. And not just be around--I need to be truly present and focus.”

“This project has been my life for half a year,” you said. “I’ve been focused, and I think this delay is more on me. I’m not as good with deadlines as everyone seems to think.”

“Maybe it’s nobody’s fault. Let’s try to put a positive spin on it. We’ve been given the gift of time.”

“That’s true.”

“A very wise man once said, ‘Back in your body, baby.’”

You maneuvered me into a corner, and we studied each other’s faces. I dipped under the water and surfaced with my hair slicked back and tight against my head, and you inhaled sharply. “God, your eyes in this water, in this light,” you said. “Beyond blue.”

My hands appraised you. “So goddamn virile. This chest, this face.”

“Oh, I’m sure I look dreadful. I haven’t had proper exercise in weeks,” you shrugged.

“We should all be so lucky to not exercise and look like you.”

“My arms feel lopsided. The right is is more muscular than the left.” You demonstrated.

“The difference is infinitesimal, love.” We kissed.

“You’ve been so good to me today. What can I do for you?” You pulled me closer and went to work on my jaw line. Your hands moved lower, and so did mine.

“Keep doing that. Do whatever you want to me.”

“It’ll be strange not waking up in a few hours to work on some scrap of a song.”

“Let me be your instrument, Edge.”

You turned me around with my chest against the side of the pool and softly said, “I’ll play your body. I know it as well as I know my first guitar.”

“Yes.”

“You know the one.”

“Yes.”

“The one that’s magic.”

“Oh Edge.”

“I know how to make you sing.” You pushed my hair to the side and bit the nape of my neck.

I moaned. “Fuck me,” I whispered.

“That’s my favorite sound.” Your hips grinding against me...

“Fuck me.”

“That and the sounds you make when you come.” Kissing my ear...

“Fuck me.”

“Let me make you come, baby.” The hiss as you inhaled through clenched teeth...

“Fuck me, Edge.”

“Baby.”

I pulled myself up and out of the pool, and I didn’t bother to turn off the pool lights. For some reason I wanted it to continue glowing all night. You followed me inside. The two of us were naked and dripping wet in our house, the house we had bought together nearly ten years ago so we could do things like this. The house was dark and the air conditioning felt a little too cold. We climbed up the stairs, up the stairs, up the stairs to our room, dripping water along the way, but no one was around to call us on it. The windows were open, so the white room was warmer than the rest of the house, and it positively reeked of lavender because you had left our sack of it near the door.

“More aromatherapy for you, Edge.”

You kissed my wet head and inhaled. “Lavender and chlorine...and you. I feel relaxed already.”

I grabbed your hard cock. “You don’t feel all that relaxed to me.”

“Neither do you.”

“Let’s take care of each other.”

I climbed onto the bed, and you followed. You took me in your mouth almost immediately, and the way you positioned yourself made it obvious that you wanted the same from me. I obliged greedily. I experienced the twin sensations of helplessness and power I always feel when you’re in my mouth, love. While I had just spent several minutes in the pool begging you to fuck me (which you certainly did the following afternoon), that night I realized I didn’t want you to have to worry about my comfort or taking it slow. At that point we were frantic for each other. The giving-pleasure-getting-pleasure feedback loop was comforting. Equal. And fucking hot. We took turns singing each other’s names and fell asleep in that perfect configuration.

We woke up early the next morning, a bit disoriented by the sound of the surf and the lavender sky at sunrise. This was not a trip we had expected to make. I watched your eyes open, and you smiled at my knees sleepily. Then I saw the bulletin your brain sent you-- _album delayed another year_ \--and you groaned. “Fuck,” you whispered.

I ran my hand from the down your stomach to the thicket of hair on your chest. “And do you know what I was just thinking?”

“What?”

“They’re the ones who pulled the plug on it, but we’re the ones who’ll have to explain to the press and our fans why there won’t be an album this year.”

You glared at the ceiling. “Bloody hell.”

“Maybe we should force them to deal with it.”

“Yes. Let them be the ones.”

I continued to admire your superb maleness. “I love you.”

You kissed my thigh. “Hi Bono. Good morning.”

We exited our room eventually and walked downstairs, two naked Irishmen who hopefully had some fresh clothes somewhere in the house. As we approached the second floor landing, I saw it first and squeezed your hand.

Two abstract male figures, one painted with angular lines and one described with gentle curves and--what do you call them, parabolas? Both figures were facing front on a background containing all the colors of the Mediterranean Sea. Luscious, juicy paint, dense with textures, color shifts, and brushstrokes. The men were holding hands. Her name. 1994.

“Edge.”

“Oh my god.”

We looked at it for quite a while.

I shook my head. “You and me. What more could you want?”

You walked up to the painting and kissed the cheek of the parabolic man. Looking back at me affectionately, you said, “Time.”


	15. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This (shorter) chapter describes a couple of video shoots in 2004. Edge POV.
> 
> I'm going to be really busy with work this month, so it might be a while before my next update. Or not. I can't wait to start writing the next chapter. While I try to prioritize my various activities logically, B and E always seem to rise to the surface and make themselves completely unavoidable no matter what I'm doing. Not that I'm complaining. I adore having them around.
> 
> The following rare-seeming video (which I'll also post on Tumblr) was a veritable goldmine of information that I used for this chapter, and I cannot recommend it highly enough.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwhHXSFxDfo
> 
> The Zen master quote was a real thing B said, and I have been aching to use it ever since I read it.
> 
> Please enjoy Red, a sort of bottle episode. I could have just as easily called it Two Hot Men In A Tent.

I feel like I’m still finding sand in places, even though it’s been a couple of months. The video is already out there--the album is in the shops, for god’s sake--but every once in a while I will feel a granular, annoying irritation that, upon investigation, is nothing but a phantom itch.

Still, we had a lot of fun in Punta del Fangar, a sexy little sandbar near Barcelona, where we were sandblasted, rained on, and burned over the course of a couple of days in September.

“Punta del Fangar means ‘tip of the...Fangar,’” you yelled, holding up guess-which-one of your fingers and pointing it at the pissing rain. The cuff of your unbuttoned sleeve flapped in the breeze.

“Get in here, B.”

After spending the previous filming delay in a big tent with Adam, Larry, and some of Alex & Martin’s crew, you informed us that you and I had dibs on the smaller and relatively primitive auxiliary tent, should another storm hit us. Neither of us was too disappointed when that happened.

I had spread a blanket, which was really more of a glorified tarp, on the tent’s floor and corralled whatever pillow-like objects I could find. You were still in performance mode, and I wondered if the domed red structure, which was being abused by hurricane-force winds, could possibly contain you.

“Alone at last,” you said, lying down next to me on the tarp and gazing up at our shuddering ceiling. Thanks to the tent, our pale skin was awash in hot pink, and your burnt-caramel hair appeared auburn against that pile of towels.

“You’d rather be out there, though.”

You kissed me. “It’s just...it’s so hard to switch gears like this. I was all warmed up.”

“I know. I feel the same way.”

“Things are looking really good, though. These guys are brilliant.”

“I love playing this song, B.”

“You look fucking invincible out there. Occasionally very aggro. Christ, how many times have I said ‘aggro’ this week?”

“Thirteen by my count.”

We watched the tent heave and shake. Sand drifted around the entrance and some undoubtedly found its way inside.

“Should we be worried about this tent?” you asked dubiously.

“It’s small but it’s tough,” I said, smiling at you. “I think I saw something like it on the Discovery Channel.”

“I’m sure you did.”

I glanced around the four-person tent to see what kinds of snacks might be available to you. A box of Cheez-Its; a case of bottled water. Those would have to do. “I’m glad we convinced you to stop drinking coffee morning, noon, and night.”

“Guess what, Edge? I’m back on it.” You glanced around the tent to see what kinds of coffee might be available to you, and finding nothing, you sank back onto the towels and sighed extravagantly.

“Ned was filming me for that little documentary they’re doing,” I said.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s like we can’t just make a video anymore. We have to make a video about making a video, too.”

I exhaled. “I think I came across as cocky.”

You laughed. “I just became interested in the video about making a video.”

“It’s this song, I swear to god. It’s turning me into some kind of rock ‘n’ roll…”

“Douchebag?”

“Thanks so much, B.”

“I’m kidding. _I’m_ the resident douchebag. Ask anyone.”

“You’re fucking incendiary and you know it.”

“I appreciate that, Edge.”

“The shapes you’re making with your body--like when you’re leaning back as far as you can go, and your arm is up…you actually resemble some kind of black swan.”

“An idea courtesy of our dear Morleigh.”

Our red surroundings caused your eyes to appear purple. I suppose mine were brown. I touched the delicate skin near your temple. “You’re magic.”

You grinned. “I’d fucking better be. Our dear Larry expects nothing but.” You rolled me over and kissed me in that dreamy, nowhere-else-I’d-rather-be way of yours.

“The tour’s more than a half-year away, but right now just watching you move and watching you sing...”

“Yeah. I can’t wait either, love.”

I sat up, took off my hat, and attempted to brush off the sand that had gotten in there somehow and was stuck to my head. You smiled.

“What.”

Your finger drew a vertical line down the center of my forehead. “I love the tiny ridges your hat leaves behind when you take it off.” Moving closer, you ran your tongue across a few of the indentations before kissing them collectively. “Adorable.”

“That is one highly specific kink of yours, baby.”

“You are one to talk.”

I walked my fingers down the front of your black shirt. “So, counting your sleeves, it looks like you have eight buttoning opportunities on this shirt. And yet you only went with these two.”

“I simply can’t be bothered.”

“Also you have several people on set who are in charge of making you look beautiful and keeping your wardrobe together and so on.”

“They simply can’t be bothered, either.”

I unbuttoned the two holdouts, moved Jesus out of the way, and idly stroked the hair on your chest. “You should take your shirt off at some point later today. As a personal favor to me.”

“You think I won’t?”

“I know you will.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“The cargo-short brigade won’t know what to do with themselves.” I was convinced that over the past couple of days, the four guys who followed you around with a camera, lights, and a reflective screen were falling in love with you, and this was causing them to question an array of life choices.

“I’ll be sure to send them over to you for guidance.” You sat up and examined my jeans. The black denim had been distressed with artfully-placed horizontal slits, nearly all of which were below the knee. You slid your finger inside one of them and tickled my non-ticklish shin. Your other hand patted my thigh. “No holes up here, tsk,” you said. “Talk about a missed opportunity.”

“Those slits have the added benefit of letting in sand. Just...so much sand.”

“Poor darling. I don’t even want to talk about what’s going on with my belly button.”

I laughed and pulled you back down.

We had spent the previous day filming in front of green screens in a cramped, makeshift studio on site while some of the crew perfected the massive gravel target we performed on. “So which came first, Bono: the line _all of this can be yours_ or your need for an excuse to drape yourself over me?”

“I can’t be expected to remember that kind of thing, Edge.”

I thought about everything that had happened over the past year and ultimately delivered us to our current location. “I’m so glad it’s not a year ago. Starting over again. Sort of.”

“Always pain before a child is born.”

“Understatement.”

“Steve gets us. He just does. I swear, when I was gone and you’d send me recordings of what you were working on, I was moved to tears so many times.”

“Yeah.” (Was that thunder?)

“As much as you and I are a unit, we really do work at different speeds. I’d come back with my big mouth--”

“You were sharp as a tack.”

“I was a steamroller. I drowned everyone out.”

“Not at all. You’d just been saving everything up.”

Your finger returned to my face and traced a line down my nose to my lips. I bit it gently. “And then there you were, my delectable Zen master, quietly mixing your ink for years and years before creating your perfect script in a matter of minutes.”

“I wish.”

“And I simply would not stop talking bout everything else I was doing. I know I caused your brain to explode on any number of occasions.”

I twisted a lock of your hair around my index finger. “Well, there was the tub incident.”

“I told you a long time ago to shut me up if I ever got on your nerves.”

“I would have, but after a while it became a sort of experiment. _How long can he keep talking about his parenthesisREDparenthesis thing before he realizes I haven’t said a word? Will he stop before the water cools down? Will he continue after I get out? Will he just stay in there all night long and into the next day, talking and talking? What if I try to distract him? Will he notice if my hands start roaming? How long will I have to play with this, for example, before he shuts up about this fucking (RED) thing and I can get him in bed?_ ”

“You do have ways of shutting me up.”

I rolled you and your laughing face onto your back and got on top of you. Another kiss. A kiss with subtext. A kiss with an agenda.

“Somehow we were able to make another album,” you murmured.

“I’m really proud of these songs.”

“Me too.” Dilated purple irises.

“Baby.”

We were like a couple of boys making out in some obscure darkroom behind the school auditorium. I inhaled you--rain, dust, and a hint of fading makeup that was due for a reapplication anyway. Your lips were rosy and plump, and your hushed moans only inspired me to make you lose control. The idea that the storm could subside at any moment and people would come looking for us, and there we’d be, fully clothed and grinding against each other--that idea did not discourage us. If anything, it made us bolder. That hot, straining, swollen friction between us was almost as good as sex.

Your jeans fit you a little too perfectly. While they were clearly designed to accommodate your prodigious manhood, that was only up to a certain point, and the limits of my carefully destroyed pants were being tested as well. I fiddled with your belt, an item that was there for decorative/ceremonial purposes only. Your vacuum-packed jeans have never been in danger of sliding down independently. No, that shiny buckle does nothing except direct the eye toward a very important area (and clank against my own, which I actually need on occasion).

“Wanna get off, baby?”

“I assumed that’s what all these towels were for.”

Your fingers slid under my t-shirt and dug into to my back. You gasped as I freed you, and a whining gust of wind caused rain and sand to splatter against the tent like shrapnel. Your eyes rolled back with pleasure when I eased your pants down just enough, and noting that in your dreamlike state you were in no condition to reciprocate, I repeated the action on myself. Your needy cock, housed in the silkiest skin imaginable, rubbed up against my own. Beautiful dark hair--my precocious boy. I wanted to devour you. But I also wanted to prolong things. The storm showed no signs of letting up, so I raised my hips a bit and kissed you.

“It’s like we’re having a siesta in the middle of the day on a beach in Spain. Could this life of ours be more decadent?”

“I could really go for a pina colada right about now, if you wanna know the truth,” you said drolly.

“Pina colada. Lunatic.”

“And for my companion...strawberry daiquiris and keep them coming. Christ, I love cabana life, Reg.” Your hand became a vice around me.

“Wanna go all night with you, B.”

“Soon. But for now, we might as well do what everyone out there assumes we’re already doing. Just hands. Possibly mouths.”

“I like the way your mind works.”

“Come for me, Edge.”

And even though our need for each other was as red as the nylon dome above us, we were careful. We are professionals, after all (if by professionals you mean two men who know exactly how to get each other off without messing up a couple of black outfits or creating yet another opportunity for sand to stick to us).

Dazed and breathless, we lay side by side and listened to the wind and rain. “God, I needed that,” I said.

“I hope this doesn’t diminish our performances later on. We’re gonna go out there like a couple of stoned lounge singers or something.”

“Well, look at it this way. Any aggro I had stored up is inside you right now. And vice versa.”

Eyebrow raise. “Okay, that is gross, but I’m willing to go with it.”

We were quiet for a while. I rolled onto my side, knowing the hard ground would cause my hand to fall asleep in no time. You put your arm around me, and I nuzzled your warm neck. I whispered, “You understand me more than anyone else.”

“It’s my privilege to understand you, love.” A soft kiss. I could have stayed in that tent with you until the end of time.

“I don’t ever want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” I could feel a quiver of hilarity rise up through your chest, and your calm features rearranged themselves into a wry grin. “You won’t, unless you leave me in a CD player in Nice and just, like, walk away for a while.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Leaving me there for anyone to steal. And then the next thing I know, I’m on the internet and everyone is downloading me for free.”

“It never got to that point.”

“It could have!” You pinched my cheek fondly.

“I will never live that shit down for as long as I live.”

“I’m just glad it was you losing the album and not me. Larry would have killed me on the spot. No judge, no jury. Straight to execution.”

“That’s probably true.”

You held my face in your hands. “I’ve never seen you so worried. Those guys from Interpol were actively trying to comfort you.”

“What a fucking nightmare.”

“And when we got back to Eze, you were still so upset you got ‘sidetracked’ while you were in my mouth, for Christ’s sake.”

I started laughing.

“I’m still offended, to be honest.”

“Sorry, B.”

“All’s well that ends well,” you said, taking my hand and kissing it. “Now where the fuck is that pina colada?”

I remembered waking just before sunrise in the white room on the day after the CD went missing. The unsettled sky was a lurid red, but I was too busy to pay much attention to it. I turned on my laptop to check for overnight updates from Universal, the police, and a dozen other people and fan sites who might have some information about a leak. The computer’s starting-up beeps awakened you, and you reassured me. “Edge, I’m sure it’s fine. Our phones would have been ringing all night if--wow, look at that sky!” You sprang out of bed and walked to the east window. “Red sky at morning, sailor take warning,” you said, glancing back at me with a sage nod. The sunrise backlit your hair and defined your silhouette with a crimson outline. I stopped what I was doing and watched you walk back to me

\-----

_Bono, I didn’t have time to finish this. I’m sorry I had to leave the Gaiety so unexpectedly. I’ve left messages at your house and on your phone, but on the off-chance that you read this first...I need you. Please come over. It’s bad. I don’t know what to do. It’s Sian._


	16. Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the one. As I've written the previous chapters, this was in the back of my mind, and I've been low-key plotting it for months. Bono POV. The email is from late August 2005, and the rest of the story takes place during December 2004-May 2005.
> 
> It's a lot. Researching it was as difficult as writing it, and I had to walk away from my computer in tears numerous times. The current bookmarks on my laptop's browser are shocking. I somehow managed to wring 8000 words from a few paragraphs of official interviews, some of which I turned into dialogue, but the vast majority of this is me guessing at things. 
> 
> My life has never been directly impacted by cancer, but I am close to someone who was in a situation that was similar to Edge's, and I'd like to thank him for answering my many questions. He gave me the ship metaphor (thank you), and he says this checks out. I'm certain every cancer journey is different, and if what I've written here isn't similar to what you've experienced, I'm sorry, but I am pretty sure that when you're a beloved rock legend with more money than god, you might be able to navigate it a bit more easily than the rest of us. I've done the best I could here. 
> 
> The Hopper belongs to the Princeton Art Museum, and you can learn more about it here:  
> http://artmuseum.princeton.edu/art/exhibitions/1653  
> I dunno. I wanted them to have it because it's perfect.
> 
> I don't own them, by the way. 
> 
> I feel weird about posting this. And yet I'm proud of it. Thanks to PJ for holding my hand throughout. Thanks to you for reading.

_“Edge, it’s officially the most exquisite thing we own.”_

_“Did the painting arrive already?”_

_“Yes. I wish you were here. Summer is not the same without you. This morning around sunrise I drank my coffee in the white room. The overcast sky made everything look silvery gray up there. Are you anywhere near the ocean at the moment?”_

_“I just got out of bed, but I can be.”_

_“Ahh. Good morning. Sorry.”_

_Ali and the children were with me in Eze for a couple of weeks of relaxation before the tour’s third leg (and school) began. You were already back in Los Angeles with Morleigh, Levi, and Sian._

_“Just give me one second. I’m putting on my sandals. Tell me about this new painting of ours.”_

_“Well, it’s a lot smaller than I thought.”_

_“In my experience, exquisite things come in small packages, B.”_

_I decided to accept this half-compliment with silent, gentle grace and move on. “The painting is only nine inches tall, but with the frame and everything else we’re talking...maybe a foot and a half?_ Eastern Point Light _by Edward Hopper. A watercolor. Cecile was beside herself when we unwrapped it together. It’s a nighttime seascape with two sailing ships. One is directly beneath the moon, and the water below it sparkles with light.”_

_“Take a photo of it and send it to me. I want to show Sian.”_

_“It’s on the wall near her room. Oh, and there’s a little red lighthouse way off in the distance. I can’t get over it.”_

_“How is everyone?”_

_“We’re fine. The girls are spending entirely too much time flirting with local boys and must be closely monitored.”_

_“Of course.”_

_“How are all of you?”_

_“We’re adjusting to the pace of Los Angeles once again. Sian is bored and has already started school, or whatever you call it when you convince your tutor that you need to know absolutely everything about hurricanes right away.”_

_“Can you believe that thing?”_

_“We are positively mesmerized by it. I mean, obviously the Gulf Coast is bracing for something catastrophic, but right now as it spins and grows out there on the water, its shape is kind of--”_

_“Beautiful.”_

_“Strangely beautiful. As perverse as that sounds.”_

_“Yeah. A perfect storm. Those poor people, though.”_

_“I know...the helplessness they must feel. I’m almost there, by the way. How is your back?”_

_“Good days and bad. Today is good.”_

_“I miss you.”_

_“I do, too. Will you be around to talk about our book next week?”_

_“That’s the plan right now.”_

_“I'll make it my life's mission to fill it with gorgeous photos of you.”_

_“And yet I'm sure we won't include one tidbit about our love affair.”_

_“Edge, that went straight to my heart. Say it again. ‘Our love affair.’”_

_“Our love affair.”_

_“God, your voice. I wish things were different.”_

_“We’ll know when the time is right for us. That’s what Irie told me. She loved the flowers, by the way.”_

_“Oh good.”_

_“Alright, Bono. I’m here. Lovely sunrise.”_

_“Okay. Put your hand in the water.”_

_“Doing it.”_

_“So am I. Feel that? We’re holding hands, Edge.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I’ll see you soon.”_

_Edge. I don’t know how to introduce what I’ve written below. I felt the need to document...has it been nine months? It feels like nine years. I am and always will be in awe of you and Morleigh. And Sian, our silver girl._

_I love you._

_B._

\-----

“What’s wrong?”

My head was spinning as I put on my coat and patted its pockets for car keys. “It’s Edge. Something happened to Sian, and it’s bad. He wants me to come over.”

Ali blinked. “I’m coming, too. I’m driving,” she said, taking the keys from my hand. “Girls, watch the boys for a bit, please,” she called to Jordan and Eve, who were making popcorn in the kitchen. They shrugged. The boys were already in bed.

“Actually, we could just walk there,” I said as we hurried to the garage.

“Maybe they might need us to get something for her.”

“He said he doesn’t know what to do.”

“This is scary.”

She drove us the short distance to your house, and by the time she parked the car, my vision was blurry with tears. I saw your silhouette in a picture window outlined with white fairy lights, and you opened the door for us before we had a chance to ring the bell. Your eyes were red. Your face was ashen. I saw Morleigh weeping on a couch beside your unlit Christmas tree.

“Edge.”

“Sian has leukemia,” you whispered, wincing, and I could tell this was the first time you had said those unbelievable words aloud.

“Oh dear god, no.”

“Edge. Oh god.”

A sob from the couch.

“Morleigh.” Ali rushed to her side.

I pulled you close and embraced you. You were wearing the same beige t-shirt from earlier in the day, and your shivering body felt like someone else’s. You were in shock. “She’s asleep,” you said quietly. “Exhausted from all the…”

Ali and I made eye contact, and I brought you over to the couch. We sat on the floor. You pushed Morleigh’s wet, dark curls away from her face, kissed her forehead, and leaned over to rest your head beside hers. She took your hand and the tears continued to flow. From all of us. Inarticulate disbelief.

All I wanted to do was protect you and your family—our family—from this. I kissed your cheek and noticed an end table piled with pamphlets no one would ever want to receive along with a glossy folder with Beaumont Hospital’s strange (and unfortunately familiar) logo on the front. Hands, shamrocks, a beehive.

Morleigh sniffed and struggled to explain. “She was there for a follow-up after that thing she had last month. And her doctor wanted to do a test. And another. They took blood. And we had to wait and wait, and Sian, she--”

You nodded at her and continued, “That’s when you called me, and you said, ‘Something’s wrong and I’m scared,’ and so I had to go. We kept meeting different doctors, and we were in parts of the hospital we’d never seen before, and Sian was so tired.”

“How much does she know?” Ali asked quietly.

“She has a simple idea that something is wrong, and we are going to fix it, and she didn’t do anything bad--” You held your face in your hands. “We still have to figure out what to say.”

“When does she…?”

“Two days.”

“Oh love.”

“It’s...aggressive.” Another wince. A shudder. I held you and looked up at Ali in bewilderment. The day had started so innocently: talking to the boys about Santa Claus, driving the kids to school, visiting my childhood home, singing about my dad. Who knew that in twelve hours...this.

This new reality.

My thoughts careened from one awful question to another as Ali and I beheld you, my love, and your perfect wife as you entered what can only be described as hell.

And who knew anything about leukemia? Childhood leukemia? I was too frightened to ask about the prognosis. About survival rates. _Survival rates_ for perfect seven year-old girls. Absolutely obscene. And god knows I’ve witnessed people in the most desperate circumstances facing horrors of this magnitude and worse, but...this was you, Edge. This was us.

I took Ali’s hand. The four of us were physically connected. She broke the silence. “What are the doctors saying?”

“The next three weeks will be rough. They said her chances are better than you might think.” Your eyes moved from the ceiling to me.

“Chances.” Morleigh buried her head in a pillow. Ali leaned over and held her shuddering form.

I took a deep breath. “We love you both so much,” I said. “We will do anything you want. I will make all the calls. I will do all the talking. I know people. I have connections, Edge. The entire U2 organization will be at your disposal, obviously.”

Ali’s voice was steady and comforting, as it always is in an emergency. “I will sort out everything else. I’ll tell your families and friends, anyone. The people who love you will help you get through this, I promise. We will relieve you of every burden we possibly can. So you can concentrate on Sian.”

“Thank you,” you said with downcast eyes.

“We love you,” Morleigh said as she sat up with some effort. The three of us kissed her swollen face. And then we wept some more.

After a while, I said, “I feel this strange urge to look at her. Does anyone…?”

You nodded and stood up, and soon the four of us were standing in the doorway of Sian’s cozy room. A moon-shaped night light illuminated the side of her innocent face as she slept with her stuffed rabbit.

She looked just like you. She looked just like Morleigh.

“God bless you, darling,” I whispered. (I would have a few choice words with him later that night.)

Ali kissed you and went to your kitchen, where she put the kettle on, made some sandwiches, wrapped them in waxed paper, and put them in the refrigerator. Numb, the rest of us sat in the living room and continued to process what was happening.

“She was upset because she’ll have to miss the Christmas concert at school,” Morleigh said quietly while gazing at a framed photo of her children drawing pictures. A pause. “I need to call my parents,” she said with a sigh, steeling herself as she looked at her phone.

“Do you want me--?” you asked.

“I’ll do it. I need to get it over with,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “I’ll come back if it’s too much.” She picked up a toy boat that was on the floor and slowly walked to your bedroom.

We stared at each other and shook our heads. “Do you want us to stay with you tonight?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Edge, you’re exhausted.”

You pulled at a loose thread on your jeans. “I’m afraid to wake up. I don’t want to open my eyes in the morning and have it all come crashing down on me.”

A loud sob came from the bedroom. You hung your head, and I held your hand.

“I can keep you company if you’d like.”

You exhaled. “It’s okay. I need to learn everything I can about it. And quickly.”

I nodded. In a crisis like this, knowledge would comfort you more than I could. “I’ll do the same. I’ll call in some favors. And like I said, I’ll tell the people who need to know.”

“This can’t get out.”

“It won’t. I want you to call me anytime at all tonight, tomorrow, whenever you need me. I swear to god I’ll be there. I’ll come back here if you want.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, Edge.”

You took a deep breath and shook your head. “I wish this were happening to me instead of her.”

“I know. I know you do. I’m so sorry.”

We left not long after that. It wasn’t until the lights of our house came into view that it hit me: I hadn’t even thought about the tour.

Ali and I looked in on our four sleeping and healthy children--our hearts breaking for Sian with every forehead kiss or “we’re home, love.” Neither of us had any intention of going to bed. Ali camped out on the living room couch with her laptop and a pad of paper, making lists. I sat beside her and did the same, and I looked up as much information as I could on childhood leukemia. I wanted to be on the same page with you and save you from having to explain the nature of the disease and things like chemotherapy and its side effects to yet another person. Discreet emails were sent to contacts I had locally and in the States. Along with, of course, Adam, Larry, and Paul, whom I would call first thing in the morning. Periodically I sent brief emails to you: _I love you. I am right there beside you._

Each day Ali, the children, and I pray that we might be useful to others. As I sat there educating myself and figuring out ways to make your lives easier, I felt a strange, dynamic energy expand throughout my being, and I thought, _This is why I am here. This is why I exist._ I put my hand on Ali’s shoulder. We looked at each other, and I could tell she was having similar thoughts.

“They are so fortunate to have you on their side, Ali.”

“Helping them is making me feel better. As sad as this is.”

“True.”

“I don’t want them to have to explain what’s going on again and again. Can you even imagine?”

“I just wanna strip away the bullshit of everyday life so they can concentrate on Sian.”

She glanced at her lists and nodded. “We’ll be their press secretaries.”

“Exactly.”

Paul, Adam, and Larry were devastated by the news, of course, and we agreed that this was a “circle the wagons” moment for the band and our organization. Your family and confidentiality were our top concerns, and Paul worked with the hospital to ensure your privacy. The tour had been announced, but since the dates were still being solidified, they had yet to be revealed. Sian’s initial treatments would hit during that in-between time--a period that could conceivably be extended for a few more weeks. We agreed that the future of the tour would be entirely your call. Larry in particular felt we should cancel it, and the rest of us said we would completely understand if that happened. At that point you had no way of knowing how Sian would react to treatment. Until then, we were in limbo.

I relayed this information to you during one of several phone calls that second day. You exhaled, and after a long pause, you simply said, “Oh, B,” your voice low and mournful. You had been busy meeting doctors and nurses and preparing Levi and your older girls for the weeks and months ahead. And Sian. “She’s trying to be brave,” you said. “All of us are.”

“I’m learning as much as I can.”

“We feel a little better now that we understand how curable this is in children.”

“Us too.”

“Our species’ ability to adapt to the inconceivable is...I don’t know if it’s good or bad.”

“I’m here. I will always be here.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, Edge.”

As much as I wanted to be with you at the hospital the next day, my presence would have been just another spectacle for everyone to navigate. And the three of you needed time together. I was happy to include Levi with my boys as we spent the day staying out of Ali’s hair as much as possible. I made sure we all took very, very long naps.

Later that evening, you emailed and asked me to visit. I felt an automatic and completely inappropriate frisson of pleasure as I read the words, “Please come to my office tonight.” (What’s wrong with me?) I flew to your side.

“Baby.”

You looked drained and lost. I dropped my coat on a chair and took you in my arms, and we stood there like that, breathing in and out. I buried my face in your neck then kissed your cheek. Salty. I wished I could take your burden away. “Anything you want to do, Edge. Anything at all.”

You led me to your leather couch--on any other night, that meant one and only one thing, but obviously this was not any other night. Your bloodshot eyes and careworn face made me want to cry. “So. Today it started,” you said as we sat down.

I took your hand. “Do you want to tell me about it?” You nodded. “Take your time. Take as long as you need.”

You inhaled and, shaking your head, you smiled at the floor. “She’s incredible, B. I’m so proud of that little girl. Her mother, too.”

“I’m so proud of you, Edge.”

You looked at your hands. “Yesterday we explained what was going to happen, and her oncologist...sorry.” You were quite still.

“Just breathe. That’s it.”

“Putting those two ideas together--Sian, her oncologist--it’s still so horrifying and bizarre.”

“My love.”

You took a moment. “He came to our house. He actually came over along with a nurse who will be in charge of her care during the actual--”

“Yeah.”

“He answered our questions. Dr. Walsh is brilliant and straightforward. A believer of facts, which is reassuring. And the nurse is young and very good with children because she survived leukemia when she was a girl.”

“Wow.”

“She spent some time with Sian while we talked to her doctor. Sian already loves her. Her name is Irie. Mother’s from the Dominican Republic, dad’s from here.” You gazed at the ceiling. “My mind is still reeling from all of this.”

I moved a little closer and rested my head on your shoulder. “Of course it is. We’re all just...yeah.”

“Well. We got in the car this morning. Sian was in the back with a bag full of toys and books and little games. We were all quiet. I was just trying to get through one task at a time. Drive to the hospital. Try to do that. Morleigh looked out at this completely unremarkable group of pine trees and said they were lovely, but you know Morleigh. She’ll find some way to praise anything at all: overcast weather, telephone poles, pigeons. But I appreciated that and took her hand. She turned on the radio to break up the silence--just ads and banal chatter. I was about to turn it down when _Bridge Over Troubled Water_ started playing.”

“Fuck.”

“And a song like that, you can’t turn it off once it starts. That would be...somehow disrespectful.”

“Right.”

“So it kind of held us captive, you know. The lyrics were describing our exact situation...and it was like you were the one singing the song. Morleigh became a statue, but she kept digging her nails into my hand, and when I glanced at her, tears were streaming down her face. I almost had to pull over.”

“Christ, what a song.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Think we’ll ever write one like that?”

“I’ll try, but I highly doubt it. Oh Edge. You poor thing.”

“I was just barely keeping it together. But Jesus Christ, I was driving my daughter to the hospital for her first chemotherapy session. Fuck. I was a mess. Morleigh was a mess. And Sian was in the back looking out at the traffic.” You paused. “Then that ‘silver girl’ part blindsided me.”

I closed my eyes. “ _Sail on silver girl / Sail on by / Your time has come to shine / All your dreams are on their way / See how they shine,_ ” I sang quietly. “Oh my god.”

“Morleigh broke down. I pulled over and stopped the car and just put my head on the steering wheel. I looked back at Sian, and she was mimicking the drums and cymbals near the end. She had drawn a sailboat in the condensation on her window. And when she saw me, she scooted forward and wiped a tear from my face. ‘It’s a really good song, Daddy.’”

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“I love her so much, B.” You leaned into me and wept.

“Our little silver girl.”

I felt it again: the realization that I was exactly where I should be. You needed someone to listen, and after being strong for your family, you needed a chance to be weak for a while. I am privileged to be the one you trust.

The gratitude I saw in your eyes told me I was right. You took a few deep breaths and continued. “Somehow I drove us the rest of the way. I dropped them off at the entrance and navigated the parking garage. I always associate them with you now, you know.”

“Of course.”

“And then it was a whirlwind of hoops to jump through. So much paperwork. Before you got here, I spent an hour putting a couple of binders together to organize it. I made audio recordings of everything because how can you even begin to remember this stuff? And then the tests came. Just routine vital signs and things like that. Sian was so good even though this was a very strange day, and we were acting weird, and she just wanted to be in school with her friends. Everyone was very kind to us.”

“Have you seen your family? How could they not be?”

“It was a lot of starts and stops. Do a thing, wait a while, go to another place and do another thing. And then it all started to become terribly real.” You paused and looked at the wall as if you were reliving a bit of what happened.

“Edge?”

“They installed a chemo port beneath her skin under local anaesthesia, a small, lumpy disc, here.” Dismayed, you pointed to a spot on your chest below your collarbone on the right side. “She’s my girl, she’s my baby. I--”

“Oh love.”

“And she didn’t like it, and she cried. Who wouldn’t? And all I could do was watch them mutilate her and pretend like it was a normal thing and she was going to be fine.”

I held you again. Tremors. Edge. How you managed to survive not only that day but everything else that followed is a complete mystery to me.

Determined to tell me about the rest of your hospital visit, you soldiered on. “I didn’t think they’d be able to start the chemo the same day, but apparently they can. They moved us to a private room, which was a nice consideration.”

“I’m pretty sure Paul had a hand in that.”

“Well. It was the thing Morleigh and I were dreading the most, so we were glad we didn’t have to deal with an audience, too. It’s just...it’s so brutal. You’re basically killing cancer cells at a slightly higher rate than you are killing normal cells.”

“Yeah. Just reading about it is hard.”

“As a strategy, it’s a blunt instrument. There’s got to be a better way. But it’s the only thing we have. This...poison. And I signed papers. I let it happen. They put it in her. It’s in her now. It is literally killing parts of her.”

“Edge.” Gasping, you leaned forward and closed your eyes, and I put my arm around your shoulders. “You don’t have to keep going,” I said.

You were quiet for a bit, took a breath, and then you said, “I’m okay. It gets a little better.” You pulled your phone from your pocket, turned it on, and found a photo. Sian was in a recliner, and crouching beside her was a nurse in seafoam green scrubs that matched her eyes. An explosion of curls and braids. They were smiling at each other.

“Is that Irie?”

“Yes.”

“How gorgeous is she?”

“She would give you a run for your money in terms of star power, B.”

“I’m sure she would.”

You glanced at the photo again.“She came in and positively lit up the room. She gave Sian and Morleigh kisses and pretended to be starstruck by me.”

“Pretended to be.”

“‘I love your band.’”

“Oh my.”

“But it was all about Sian. She asked about the scary day she’d had, and Sian said she didn’t like her port. Irie said she didn’t like hers either, but it was there for a reason, and she eventually put a tattoo over the site as a kind of revenge. She said, ‘Wanna see?’ And it was a sun.”

“Ahh.”

“‘Because I’m so happy to wake up every day.’ Sian said she wanted a moon, and Irie winked at me saying, ‘ _The sun is sometimes eclipsed by a moon_ , eh?’ So she really is a fan. Sharp as a tack.”

“I’m impressed.”

“As she was connecting the IV to the port, she told Sian that she’d probably have to wait until she was a big girl to get a moon tattoo. And the implication that, yes, one day Sian would be big--she would survive this and grow up--it was subtle, but it was a ray of hope during an otherwise fucked up day.”

“What a blessing. Good people will shepherd your family through this.”

“Sian said, ‘You had leukemia but now you’re okay.’ And Irie told her she was a survivor, and she started singing the song, that Destiny’s Child song. She said every kid she takes care of has to have a theme song to help them through tough times, and that was hers. She grinned over her shoulder at me and said, ‘Sorry.’”

“Did Sian tell her you know Beyonce?”

“Of course. This got a big squeal out of her. I’m pretty sure she’s a bigger fan of Beyonce than she is of us.”

“And who could blame her?”

“Sian said she already had a theme song, and it was called Silver Girl. Irie looked back at us for clarification, and Morleigh said, ‘AKA _Bridge Over Troubled Water_.’ And she said, ‘Wow, that’s pretty heavy for such a little girl! But, yeah, that works.’ When she started the IV, she said, ‘Okay, Silver Girl, let’s make you better.’”

“Wow.”

Inhale. Exhale. It was good to watch you breathe. “I mean, we couldn’t have asked for a more perfect caregiver for her. Plus a role model and heroine. She stayed with us for a couple of hours. Morleigh and I read _Charlotte’s Web_ to Sian, kind of alternating turns so each of us would have a chance to go somewhere private and collect ourselves. It’s just such a surreal situation. A week ago, I had no idea, absolutely no idea what was looming on the horizon. And now here I am trying to adjust to it.”

“Exactly.” I kissed your cheek. You hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.

“Anyway. Irie asked Sian questions about the book, what she thought about Fern and that cute little pig, and they also talked about favorite school subjects and things like that. What it’s like to have a weird name. Irie means ‘positive and powerful,’ and Morleigh said Sian means ‘princess of light.’”

“Indeed she is.”

“Sian said her name also means just regular old Jane. And it also means blue. So Irie took notes, presumably about personal stuff as well as physical, and she monitored Sian’s vitals. She told her that there were drugs in the chemo that would keep her from getting too sick. It was all very warm and encouraging. She gave Sian lots of praise for being courageous, but she also said it was okay to be scared, too, and that we could call her anytime. And then it was over. She hugged us goodbye, and we went home. Sian didn’t cry. Christ, B, I admire her so much. Morleigh and I can’t stop staring at her. She said it was getting weird.” You smiled at me.

“How is she now?”

“She’s very tired, obviously. It’ll take a while before the drugs’ effects take hold. For now we’re kind of in survival mode, and it’s just one foot in front of the other.”

I looked at you in complete admiration. “I love you for telling me this.”

“I love you for listening.”

“Edge. There is nowhere I’d rather be.” I took your face in my hands and kissed your heavy eyelids. “You must get some sleep. Alright?”

“Yes.”

I kissed your mouth. “You’re an incredible father, you know.”

“B.”

“Everything I know about being a good dad came from you. And now you’re just...there is no one better. She is so lucky to have you as her father.”

You looked at the floor. “Thanks. People’s generosity...it’s been truly humbling.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

Little smile. “Yes. But you’re right. I should sleep. Morleigh’s parents will be here in the morning.”

We kissed again, said goodbye, and I went home positively in awe of you.

And that was how it started. The next few weeks passed in a haze of appointments and responsibilities--Christmas barely registered, and January seemed more endless than usual. A tabloid somehow found out that Sian was ill, so on top of everything else, you had a brief but annoying legal battle on your hands. Grammy nominations, a looming tour that might or might not happen: decisions had to be made. A tentative second medical team was assembled in Los Angeles, and it included Irie, who had proved to be indispensable and was willing to travel if her girlfriend could join her. We reworked the tour dates to accommodate Sian’s needs and arranged for a rehearsal space in February in case we got the green light.

Ali and I took care of our duties, but honestly when one is the foremost guitarist of his generation, things like housekeeping, cooking, and day-to-day home maintenance already get taken care of. And in any case, it was the dead of winter: no gardens to cultivate, no lawns to mow. Ali and I saw to it that you rarely if ever had to pick up the phone, and what you appreciated the most was our ability to relay what was happening to those who needed to know.

You told me that taking care of a child with cancer made you feel like you were adrift at sea on a ship you didn’t know how to operate. About once a week you had thirty minutes with an expert who could give you instructions, but then for the rest of the week you were on your own. Also you’re terrified. And heartbroken. And hey, where is God? And occasionally you’ll see a plane overhead skywriting “everything happens for a reason” or something equally infuriating. But at least your friends had put a second freezer down in the hold and filled it with casseroles.

As time passed, you adapted to your difficult circumstances. Surprising no one, you moved from merely educating yourself on the basics of leukemia to exploring scholarly treatises and experimental approaches to curing the disease. Able to talk with Sian’s oncology teams with ease, you occasionally pointed them in the direction of the latest research.

Ali gave Morleigh a shoulder to cry on, and our children played with yours. Sian’s teacher did what she could to provide activities and books for her to read, but it started to look like Sian would have to leave school for the remainder of the year. Ali did some sleuthing and located an excellent tutor. Morleigh discovered an online community of supportive parents who gave her plenty of practical advice, although she confided in me that if she read the words _your cancer journey_ one more time, she would throw her computer out the window. She was concerned that Levi might feel lonely and overlooked, so he was included at appointments and reassured that he wouldn’t catch Sian’s illness and no one had done anything wrong. He was there to be a good brother. Morleigh sent me a photo of the two of them holding hands while they watched _The Wizard of Oz_ from Sian’s chemo recliner. She wore a hoodie covered with silver sequins.

I saw you as often as I could. Most of the time we met at your house, and on rare occasions, I convinced you to take in a change of scenery. I listened to you and gave you the kind of love and attention I’d received from you so many times in the past. You were preoccupied with Sian, so sex was understandably off the table. I missed it, and I felt guilty for doing so. Our coveted year together was in jeopardy, and I knew this tortured you when you allowed yourself the freedom to think about it. I urged you to take some time for yourself and at least play your guitar, but even that seemed inappropriate to you.

Sian was (and continues to be) so brave throughout, and I tried to adopt a similarly tough and positive persona when I talked with her. Some days that was an easy thing to do, but others...her eyes destroyed me. There’s an expression a child takes on when they are in distress and trying to process the unimaginable. I’ve seen it too many times.

So all of us held our collective breath.

Midway through January, you received good news. The chemotherapy seemed to be working, and Sian’s blood count was improving. While initially horrified that her hair was falling out, your darling daughter had taken to wearing your beanies and even joked that she looked even more like Daddy than ever before. She has her mother’s sense of humor and her father’s unflappable intelligence, and I know they will see her through this ordeal, my love.

“She’s amazing,” you told Adam, Larry, and me one afternoon at HQ. You took a deep breath. “She wants us to do it.”

Larry’s jaw dropped. “Edge. Really?”

“All I needed was for her to say, ‘I don’t want you to go.’ But she told me it would be weird to have me at home just staring at her all the time, and she told me to go for it. Can you believe that?”

“Children crave normality,” I said, trying to process what you had said. I’d expected to hear a much different announcement that day.

“And for us touring is normal,” Adam said.

“Morleigh and I have been talking about it since the beginning: could we deal with this if we went ahead with the tour? It was a difficult decision, and it was not taken lightly. But as a family, we believe we can take this on. We think it could work for us. She has a huge support system in L.A. And the majority of the reworked U.S. dates would allow me to return to our home there at least every three days. Most of the dates in the west--I could be home the same night.”

“Are you sure?” Adam asked. “We didn’t want you or Sian to feel any kind of pressure from us.”

You looked at him fondly. “Like I said, I was ready to pull the plug on this if she wanted me to stay home. But yeah. She’s okay with it. And the more we talked, the more I could see that continuing our lives and not just rolling over for this disease was an act of defiance. In a strange way, I think this tour will honor her.”

I reached across the table and took your hand. Then Larry’s hand was on mine. And Adam’s was on Larry’s.

This moved you. “I have watched her evolve, and she’s become a tougher person this month. Tougher than I ever thought possible. In the end, she was the one reassuring me. Bono, she told me, ‘Sometimes we have to share.’”

I remembered the sad little girl I gave a strawberry to a few years ago. “Edge. Tell her I love her.”

We looked at each other. Adam already had his game face on. “Let’s do it, then,” Larry said. “Let’s do it for Sian.”

Things accelerated. Our operation moved to the west coast (L.A.; Vancouver; Rosarita, Mexico) within a few weeks, led by your family, who arrived first and helped Sian adjust to her new routine. Irie was on board. We had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, but I’d imagine anyone would be pleased to leave our damp, frigid island for a few months of perpetual summer in California. Her girlfriend Elise, a freelance writer who covers the tech industry, lives on the web and was not married to winter in Dublin at all.

Dates were announced--far fewer shows than our fans expected. This was immediately followed by an online ticket sale fiasco, the timing of which could not have been worse. Scalpers gamed the system in appallingly ingenious ways, and we were blasted by waves of vitriol from our fans. “You are not taking this on,” I told you before you started getting any ideas. It became Larry’s pet project.

Work. Rehearsals. Frequent flights home. You’ve been in the air more than I have this year.

You found a refuge in your guitars, and your perfectionism and virtuosity reached new heights. You had excellent reasons to stay home. If you were going to leave your daughter and wife, those two and a half hours we spent performing had better be worth it. The rest of us did what we could to keep up. When you were away, I attempted to fill the void by knocking on the doors of the powerful and promoting my various campaigns. I started to truly understand the unbalanced feeling our band experiences when one of us is gone on a regular basis. As much as I wanted to join you on your flights home, I knew Morleigh needed you more than I did (even though my need for you has always been staggering). And Sian deserved to be with her dad.

In mid-February you dedicated one of our Grammys to her. You were humble and charming. I couldn’t stand close enough to you that night. You sang _And it’s you when I look in the mirror_ with me. You were magnificent.

God, I missed you when I was alone.

It just wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. On concert days, you arrived at the last possible minute and kept a truly punishing schedule. Gone were the days of me attempting to seduce you in front of thousands. Gone were the days of us sharing microphones. You had your own mic, and too many gratuitous distractions from me made your job harder, although I couldn’t exactly quit cold turkey, could l? You were tethered to your bunker of gear in front of that extraordinary curtain of lights, and our show was more technically complex than ever. And more emotionally complex, too. Songs I had written about my father now applied to your daughter as well. I directed _Let me take some of the punches for you tonight_ at you, and I barely kept it together as you sang, _In science and in medicine / I was a stranger / you took me in_. You had the idea to add twenty-five year old songs from our first record into the mix--back when your genius shone brightly for the first time, and we were just...boys. Who cared if we performed them for a bemused, hit-expecting audience? I was swept away on tidal waves of nostalgia whenever I heard those bright, shining bell tones of yours.

The shows were beautiful. I was proud of us and proudest of you. What had seemed impossible a few months ago was indeed happening. During that first month, after we had been smuggled into cars and were on our way to the airport or the hotel, I had just enough time to hold you in my arms and lavish you with praise and affection...and then you were gone. Once I made it back to my (let’s say it together, fucking palatial) rooms, I was always too wired to sleep and had no one to help me down from that euphoric but lonely cloud.

Then came the month of dates in the eastern states--most with performances on consecutive nights and too far from Los Angeles for you to go home and return the following day. You had every communications advance at your fingertips, and I joined you on many video chats with your wife and children. You and Sian had promised each other to look at the moon every night when there was one to see. That would keep you connected. I demanded that you be given rooms with moon-facing views--I made other people figure out what those might be--and when a moon-facing view was impossible, I moved the two of us to a different hotel where it was possible.

Your first nights away from them in Chicago were rough. Any thoughts I may have had about, I don't know, being thrown against a wall and ravished...? Those evaporated when you collapsed on the bed, exhausted and heartsick. The mini panic attacks or whatever you want to call those episodes I had during the previous tour--you seemed to be experiencing something similar. On the second night, Sian had told you she missed you, and she had been sick all day. I held you, I listened to you, I cried with you, and we looked at the moon until it disappeared behind a building before we fell asleep. I woke up and kissed you periodically throughout the night. You had so much to deal with while we were on the road, but I wanted you to give yourself permission to receive pleasure again.

You were gazing at me when I opened my eyes the next morning. We sat up and looked out the windows. The sunrise sparkled over Lake Michigan, and the architecture of that beautiful city stood and faced it, proud and tall, as if pledging allegiance to the light.

"What do you think goes on in that red building?" you asked, pointing to a spare, brick-like edifice.

"I have no idea, the Edge, but I sure as hell am gonna find that out for you."

We got back in bed and faced each other. "Happy birthday, love," you said.

"Oh fuck! It is my birthday, isn't it? Forty-fucking-five."

"I've always liked that number." You offered no explanation as to why. Apparently it was obvious to you. We studied each other.

"Do you know what this morning reminds me of?" I asked. You shrugged. "Our first tour. 1980. I was twenty. You were...eighteen? Babies."

"Why that tour?"

"Don't tell me I'm the only one who remembers this. You know how we'd wake up and just...look at each other for a while? In that _I can't believe we get to do this_ kind of way?"

" _I can't believe we get to travel around America and play music._ "

" _I can't believe we get to wake up together._ "

"Studying each other across that gulf between our beds."

I smiled. "Sometimes a couple of hands would bridge that gap."

"Back when we had sort of decided holding hands was acceptable."

"I was always hard in the morning."

A chuckle."Well, I'm not taking that as any kind of compliment because every guy that age is hard in the morning."

"True. But it was because of you. I'm sure of it."

"The same thing was going on with me, and I'm sure it was because of you." You touched my face. "I’d silently adore you for as long as I could bear it. And then, as a sort of courtesy, I'd face the other direction while you got up for a shower and to presumably deal with yourself."

"Of course. Meanwhile you also dealt with yourself?"

"Of course."

I had an idea. Maybe a little escapism was what you needed. "Let's pretend, Edge. Let's pretend we're those boys, and let's give them permission to do the things they want to do.”

“Well…”

“Love. She’s asleep. She’ll be asleep an hour from now.” I kissed your forehead. “Constantly fretting over her from afar is not doing either of you any good.”

A hint of recognition. You exhaled. “I’m sorry I’ve been so...not here.”

“Darling. Think nothing of it.”

“The past few months have been...I barely allow myself the luxury of missing you.”

I put my arms around your shoulders, and you moved to rest your head on my chest. “She wants you to be happy. We share you, you know.”

“She loves you, B.”

Lifting your hand and kissing it, I said, “Let me take care of the man who takes care of everybody else.”

A gentle nod.

“This doesn’t have to go anywhere beyond the two of us talking.”

Your lips grazed my collarbone. “Thanks for being so patient with me.”

“Edge. Helping you is a blessing.” I smiled down at you, and you smiled up at me. “Now. Back to your pillow. You’re eighteen. We’re in some dump in...Boston. It’s winter. It’s morning. You’re looking at me, and I’m looking at you. Okay? Except this time, nothing is holding us back. Nothing is keeping us on opposite sides of the room. We’re facing the inevitable, except now we have no complications, no guilt. No guilt of any kind.”

“Alright.”

“Look at me.”

Your face, backlit by the rising sun and surrounded by white, became serene. Angelic. A warm, shy smile.

“Morning, Edge.”

“Hi, B.”

We were quiet as we watched each other breathe. Your cool fingers walked their way over to my side of the bed. I took your hand and warmed it with mine. You pulled my hand closer, and twenty-five years fell away.

“You look cold. May I join you?” I asked. Lame, but at that age we had no game whatsoever.

“Yes.”

I moved to share your pillow. Our noses were mere inches apart. I touched your cheekbone. Your pink ear. You pushed my hair away from my face. I felt your heartbeat as my hand traveled down to the center of your chest. “So soft.”

“It just keeps coming.” Your hand mirrored mine. “I like yours.” Glistening eye contact.

“Have you ever kissed a boy?” I whispered.

“No.”

“Do you ever wonder what it might be like?”

“Yes.”

“With me?”

“Yes.”

“I do, too.”

Our foreheads touched. My younger self was about to kiss you for the first time. I took in your otherworldly face--a face that would take you ten years to grow into--and I kissed your unwieldy eyebrows. Your unlined cheek. Then the hollow below your massive cheekbone, and down. Down to your lips. I closed my eyes and kissed you tenderly. You responded with a contented little moan, and as you kissed me back, your narrow shoulders and your slight frame relaxed. Our breath commingled and the heat of our bodies crept up to reach our blushing faces. I wanted it to be real. I wanted us to be those boys again.

Long, gifted fingers slid down my neck. “I’m falling in love with you,” you whispered.

“I’m falling in love with you.”

We continued to kiss: two boys beginning a grand adventure and sharing a bed far from home. Pausing to stare at each other and come to terms with the fact that everything had just changed, we caught our breath.

“Where do you even come from?” I whispered.

“I’m from the future.”

“What’s it like there?”

“It’s better.”


	17. New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the last chapter of The White Room! I am in the process of writing an epilogue that will be posted as chapter 18. I thought about making it a couple of paragraphs, but it is ballooning into something longer.
> 
> This chapter is Edge POV. The email takes place at the end of the Vertigo tour (December 2006), and the bulk of the chapter happens between August 2005 and April 2006. It's all over the place. It starts out like an after-school special, but the last half is just a whole lot of sex. I mean, I asked my Edge, and he said he didn't want to write about cancer, and I know my readers would prefer to read about sex. And love. And mushy, icky, gross stuff. You'll see.
> 
> I guessed that the boa happened in Milwaukee. No one could tell me definitively, and I just liked the sound of Milwaukee in that sentence.
> 
> Information regarding the duration of Sian's illness is vague and contradictory, so I did my best here. When I researched this, a legit source said she was pronounced cancer-free near the end of 2010, but I know that doesn't just happen immediately, and years must pass before this can be said.
> 
> Also I have written so much B/E that I can't remember if I've mentioned "little machines" before. If I did, I can't remember who talked about them. I'm guessing it may have been Bono, and if he's repeating himself near the end of this chapter, well, I do believe he has done that kind of thing in real life a time or two. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, thanks for commenting, thanks for sticking around. <33333

_Now that it’s finally over, after nearly two years of stops and starts, I’m relieved but also a little sad. This tour was not what either of us expected or wanted, and yet I feel closer to you than ever before. Now here we are in paradise, on this volcanic dot in the center of the Pacific Ocean, and I’m watching a tangerine sunrise that was a sunset in Dublin a few hours ago. Somehow it’s Monday in both places._

_I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express my gratitude for your patience, adaptability, and love over the past two years. And the laughs. Despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, you still managed to make me laugh. That is the miracle of you, sprawled on the ellipse and sucking your thumb to the delight of thousands. You resplendent in a conductor’s cap and fan-sourced feather boa, kissing Larry backstage as he grumbled “all aboard the gayest train in Milwaukee.” You with your horrible sleight of hand tricks that failed to impress even the most deer-in-the-headlights children onstage. Thank you for all of that, B._

_But my god, I need to relax (he said, the first person in history to spend any amount of time here and continue to feel wired/exhausted). I want to be alone and with you and with our family as we recover and start again. Recording the album was so difficult. This tour was backbreaking. I worry that I don’t any ideas left. Maybe they will come back to me. I hope so._

_I wrote what you are about to read off and on during the long break between Buenos Aires and this string of dates on the other side of the world. I’m so bleary-eyed I don’t know if it will make sense or hang together as any kind of story, but you will be rewarded if you can make it to the end._

_Bono. As I was writing this email, Morleigh called, and now I am in tears. We’ll have to monitor her closely for years, but as of now, Sian’s doctors say it hasn’t returned. The worst is probably over._

_She wanted us to see this._

_Please come out here and join me when you wake up. I love you._

_E._

\-----

Thank you for writing everything I could not.

As soon as we were hit with the news about Sian nearly a year and a half ago, two futures presented themselves to me: one where she would survive and one where she would not. And you know me: I’m always trying to anticipate and solve potential problems, most of them day-to-day obstacles. What will I do if I can’t duplicate this sound outside of the studio? What will I do if I miss this flight? What will I do if this cold causes me to lose my voice?

It’s not like I haven’t worried about losing you or Morleigh or anyone else I love. But I can’t think of a question that’s more unimaginable and horrifying than this: what would I do if my little girl died of cancer?

Especially when the answer is this: nothing. There’s nothing I could do to stop it. And there’s nothing I can do now. We are at the mercy of this capricious disease. Two futures, two diverging roads: one leading back to a life of relative normalcy and one into darkness. I can’t protect her.

I’m not sure why I thought this would only last a year, as if a hammer would hit on December 13 and we would receive definitive answers. But that didn’t happen, of course, and we still don’t know.

Forever an optimist, Morleigh has taken a one-day-at-a-time approach. We are alive today, so let’s really live. Sian is with us, so let’s treasure her. And it is hard to argue with that philosophy, even if its foundation has cracks and the paint is peeling. We are living in a house we never would have chosen for ourselves, and somehow we have adapted to it. It’s shelter.

Chemo, sickness, recovery, did it come back? How did we fall in step with this cruel rhythm? We did it because we had no other choice.

Between legs of the tour late last summer, I brought Sian to the hospital for a treatment in much the same way you might take a child to violin lessons or soccer practice. No pulling over by the side of the road to cry. No uneasiness when the automatic doors slid open and the hospital’s bleachy atmosphere assaulted our noses. Chemotherapy had become just another (unpleasant) thing we did. Hollie, Blue, and Arran were teaching Sian how to play Monopoly as yellow chemicals we didn’t like to think about dripped into her body. Irie was Sian’s consigliere. I was advising Arran on a hotel deal when my phone rang. It was you.

“Hey...What’s going on?...Yeah?...You’re kidding…A thing like that...I wish you were here, too…” I got up from the card table and motioned for everyone to keep playing while I continued to talk with you for a bit.

Irie approached me later and said, “I assumed you were on the phone with Morleigh earlier, so I told Sian I wanted to check in with her before you hung up. But she sort of laughed and said, ‘No, that’s Bono.’”

I shook my head. “She always seems to know.”

Irie looked around to see if we were alone, and, in a remarkably accurate impression of Sian’s sweet voice, she said, “He loves Bono like he loves Mommy.” An eyebrow raise and a grin. "And your older girls exchanged this look. There was a definite _vibe_. And then they all kind of shrugged and giggled."

I exhaled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to the inner circle.”

She laughed and gave me a hug. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,” she whispered before pretending to zip her lips.

After the U.S. dates wrapped in December, we had a couple of months off before we visited South America and Mexico. I returned to Los Angeles around the anniversary of Sian’s diagnosis. She had made it through a year of fear and uncertainty, and I wanted to reward her with some quiet fun, so I took her out to Echo Park Lake. We rented a little pedal boat shaped like a swan, and we had the lake mostly to ourselves on that Tuesday morning.

“What do you think of this swan boat?” I asked as I helped her with her life vest.

“I love it and I want one.”

We pedaled out to the center of the manicured lake--I had hoped for something a bit wilder and more natural, but in case she felt ill, this was relatively close to home. Palm trees decorated the lake’s perimeter, and the skyline of downtown Los Angeles dominated the horizon.

Sian quickly became popular with a dozen ducks who swarmed around her side of the boat. I had purchased an ice cream cone full of pellets, and she giggled contentedly as she tossed it to them.

“Having fun?”

“Yes!”

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

She squinted up at the sun. I pulled her sunglasses (custom little kid versions of your current Bulgari ones, thank you) from my coat pocket, and she put them on.

“Do you know what the sun is, Sian?”

“The sun is...a sun.”

I smiled. “The sun is...a star.”

“Wait. _That_ is a star?”

“That’s right. It’s the earth’s own star.”

“But if the sun is a star, does that mean all the stars at night are suns? Somebody else’s suns?”

“Yes. All the stars are somebody else’s suns.”

“Wow. So many suns.” She leaned over and put her head on my shoulder, or at least as far up my arm as her height could manage, and in doing so she reminded me of you. We pedaled contentedly for a while and approached some lily pads she wanted to see. The ducks followed us. Tearing the cone up into little bits and feeding it to them, she said, “Everyone is sad because I’m sick. One time at the store a lady looked at me and started to cry. And it came back.”

Sometimes the things she says knock the wind out of me. I took her hand. “We wish you weren’t sick, but you make everyone who knows you so happy, Sian. We love you very much.”

“But I don’t wanna make you sad at all.”

“You didn’t do anything to make us sad.” I put my arm around her. “Do you know what Mommy said to me yesterday?”

“What?”

“That you’re her hero. What do you think about that?”

Sian had just seen _The Incredibles_. She smiled. “But I don’t have any superpowers.”

“Actually, you do. You may not know it now, but This (most of the time we just call it This) is giving you a kind of superpower.”

“Really? What kind?”

“Well, for one thing now you know how tough you are. You have been brave for a whole year, haven’t you? You’re more courageous than most big people, and you’re still a little girl.”

“Yeah.”

“And if you’re braver than an adult when you’re little, who knows what you’re gonna be like when you’re big? I think you’ll be fearless.”

She smiled. “Fearless.”

I imagined her as a young woman. Smart, beautiful, kind, and alive. Thriving. “You’re more fearless than me, you know? I’ve never had to face anything scary all by myself. I don’t know how tough I could be if I really had to. I’ve wondered about that my whole life. But you already know you can be very strong.”

“You do scary stuff all the time, Daddy.”

“You think so? Like what?”

“You can get up in front of lots and lots of people and you’re not even scared. You even like to do it.”

I laughed. “Oh, sometimes I’m a little scared.”

“But you still do it. And sometimes you even smile.”

“Well, I try, but it’s hard when you’re doing a lot of other things at the same time. Bono’s kind of in charge of the smiling.”

Her eyes twinkled. “He makes you smile.”

“Yes, he does. When he smiles at anybody, it’s hard for them not to smile back.”

“Smiling is his superpower.”

“That’s right. But he gets scared just like anyone else. Sometimes he even gets sick right before we go on. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“But he goes on anyway because he’s brave like you.”

“He’s fearless like me.”

“Yes. He’s fearless like you. Want some juice?”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

We pedaled over to the fountain in the middle of the lake. A plume of water shot up into the sky, Old Faithful-style.

“It’s just so weird,” she said.

“What’s weird?”

“Parts of me are dying. Because of...the stuff.”

“I wish we had a better way to cure you, sweetheart.”

“Me too.”

“But this is supposed to work. We have to trust the doctors and the scientists.”

We watched a large bird, possibly a condor, soaring on a thermal, barely flapping its wings.

“I wish I could fly.”

I kissed her forehead. “Did I ever tell you about the story of the phoenix?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, the story is a myth. That means it’s not true. But people like to believe it because it’s such a good story and it helps them understand things.”

“Okay.”

“So, a phoenix is a really big bird, like an eagle or a swan, maybe.”

Sian tapped the plastic wing of our swan. “What does it look like?”

“People who paint pictures of it usually paint it with fire colors. Like red and orange and yellow. It’s a very beautiful bird. But the sad thing is this: there’s only one of them.”

“Isn’t it lonely?”

“I’m sure it is. But sometimes things that are special, really special...well, sometimes they get lonely. Because nobody else is like them.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“So this big fancy bird is the only one of its kind, and it flies all over the world, and some people say it lives to be 1,400 years old.”

“That’s really old.”

“And it is very strong, and it can carry enormous weights.”

“Like it holds them with its feet and flies?”

“Yes. And it has magical powers. When it sings, bad people get scared, and good people become brave. And when the phoenix cries, its tears can heal illnesses.”

“I love this bird.”

“Then, when the phoenix is very old, it bursts into flame and dies. And out of the fire comes a brand new phoenix.”

“A baby phoenix?”

“A cute phoenix chick,” I said, cuddling her. “Then it grows up and is the new phoenix.”

“Wow.”

“I think maybe you are a phoenix.”

“How am I a phoenix?”

“Right now _This?_ This is the fire. The fire is not fun, but it is helping your body start over again. And when your doctors say This can stop, you’ll be like a brand new phoenix.”

She nodded. “I’m a phoenix,” she whispered.

Later at home, she and I were drawing at the kitchen table. I had been asked to come up with some kind of logo for Music Rising, which was still in its infancy. Sian was drawing a phoenix, the first of many.

“Tell me about your picture, sweetheart.”

“It’s a phoenix, see?” A red and yellow bird was flying in the night sky, except all of the stars looked like little suns. Its mouth was open, and musical notes were pouring from it. Tears dripped from its eyes and landed on a child asleep in her bed. “That’s me.” She had written “feenix” along the bottom.

“It’s perfect.”

“What are you doing, Daddy?” she asked, looking at my various crossed-out attempts, most of them trying to marry the letters M and R.

“I have to make a picture for New Orleans and the musicians who will get new instruments.”

“Maybe the phoenix could bring them some.”

And that’s how the logo was born.

The devastation I witnessed in New Orleans that fall is something I’ll never forget. I still can’t describe it accurately. Bob Ezrin and I, armed with our altruistic but naive plans, were not prepared for what we saw. It was biblical, ghostly, and incomprehensible. Seen from the sky, that omnipresent beige-gray mud resembled a malignant tumor that had devoured the city. The water lines striping the buildings that remained, the annihilated neighborhoods, the carcasses of dead animals, the exposed coffins...you are the only person I know who has witnessed epic devastation. You know what it’s like, and now I do, too, and you were the one I called that first night, overwhelmed. “They can’t just let it die. It’s the Venice of America,” you said.

I suppose my ability to do something, anything for the musicians of New Orleans sublimated the powerlessness and frustration I felt in the wake of Sian’s diagnosis. Morleigh has often described feeling a sense of perspective after taking Sian to the hospital for another chemotherapy session: there was always someone who had it worse, and she felt we needed to hang on tooth and nail to Sian’s ongoing resilience and any good news we received. While I agreed with her, sometimes it was hard not to wallow in self-pity and fear. New Orleans was the slap in the face I needed.

The tour was strange for me, as you know. You helped me as I limped my way through my distractions, my guilt, and my inability to be in two and sometimes three places at the same time. Your voice and your beating heart became my haven. It took some time for me to find my way back to semi-normalcy. Wanting to have sex with you made me feel selfish. You were patient and convinced me that our temporary escapes from reality were necessary.

I think you were surprised by the way I latched on to your “let’s pretend we’re young again” idea. Losing myself in our alternate universe made it easier for me to retreat from the world. You played along and were so tender with me. Late at night, after the phone calls had been made and the long-distance messages of love had been sent, you and I would turn off the lights and slip into bed, where you would wait for me to say something.

“What did you think of those girls tonight?”

And you would respond without skipping a beat. “The ones right in front of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. They were so pretty. I think they must have been sisters. They wanted you, Edge. I could tell.” We faced each other, and you kissed the bridge of my nose.

“They were looking at you most of the time.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Of you or of them?”

An impish smile. “Take your pick.”

“I don’t want us to be that kind of band, B.”

“What kind of band is that?”

“The kind that takes advantage of their fans.” My fingers stroked the nape of your neck while my thumb pressed into the spot on your jawline where its angle shifted, just under your earlobe. Millimeters below the surface of your skin lay the hard little corner responsible for the exquisite geometry of--

“You mean the kind that has sex with their fans.”

“It just seems…” I kissed you. “Cruel.”

“It does. But who are we gonna have sex with?” Your lips were on my neck.

“I think you know. Maybe not tonight, but…”

“Soon.” Back up to my mouth for more kisses that became progressively sexual.

“Because we are in love.”

“We are in love, Edge.”

You rolled onto your back and gazed at the ceiling, and so did I. Easing the blankets down so I could get a good look at you, lying naked in the cool shadows of whatever hotel room that was in whatever city that was, you took my hand while stroking yourself with the other. “It’s okay, love. I know you want to.”

“Okay.”

The air conditioner kicked on and drowned out certain sounds for a while, always a blessing when we were young and desperate. Shoulder to shoulder, we gazed at each other. Your eyes absorbed and reflected any scraps of light the room had to offer.

The timbre of your voice has deepened over the years, but when you’re turned on, it can go lower or higher. When it’s higher, you sound like you used to then, especially when you’re close, especially when you’re almost there. You murmur those soft nonsense sounds of yours, your hot hand clinging to mine as your back arches, your body shudders, and you call out my name. What a gift it is to witness your face and body at that most private and beautiful moment. What a gift it is to be the name on your bitten lips.

“Baby…”

“Did you just call me baby, Reg?” you asked, catching your breath and turning to watch me.

“Yes. Oh god.”

“Say it again.”

“Baby.”

You groaned with pleasure. “Let me help you.” You pressed your damp forehead against mine, and your body smelled vital and alive, my red-blooded boy. “Aren’t you curious? Haven’t you thought about what it would feel like?” you whispered before moving onto your stomach and switching hands with me. I focused on your plump, irresistible backside as you continued, “Don’t you want to experience everything life has to offer? I do.”

“God, baby, yes.”

Your lips at my ear, you whispered, “Do you ever wonder what it’ll feel like? You. Fucking me.” I moaned. Young, perfect you was relentless. “Fuck me, Edge. I know we’re not ready, but I just wanna hear myself say it. I just wanna feel that thrill race through my body. Fuck me. Fuck me, Edge, please.”

“Yes, yes…”

You guided me to a necessary escape into a gorgeous, weightless oblivion. Silence. Breathing. Kisses. Rebirth.

And then, later, staring at each other, you asked, “Are we lovers?”

“We’re starting to be.”

Oh, baby. You were so patient. And you brought me back.

During that long break between Buenos Aires and our Australian dates (eight months for me to be with Sian for...the worst of This), you emailed me.

“Which is better: a good surprise or the anticipation of something good?”

I answered, “I don’t really enjoy surprises anymore. Even the good ones can put me in a place I don’t like.”

Seconds later: “Edge. Something good is going to happen to you. Soon. Okay? Probably when you get back from New Orleans. So brace yourself or do whatever it is you need to do.”

“Alright. Consider me braced.”

I proceeded to forget about this entirely, of course.

I had been invited to attend Jazzfest and the reopening of the Jazz Preservation Hall on the last weekend in April. Music Rising had replaced all of the JPH band’s instruments. New Orleans continued to appear ghostly--the city’s reconstruction efforts had barely made a dent in the devastation. It was demoralizing. When the guys making the documentary about Music Rising sat me down to talk about the things I had seen, I kept it together until the word “families” came out of my mouth, and I had to stop as tears fell behind my sunglasses.

You know those bars in the French Quarter where live music used to blast out into the street and compete with similar sounds pouring from other doorways? Festival or not, it was too quiet. But there were pockets of determination here and there. The faces I saw were haunted but strong and still daring to hope. These people were survivors. I wished Sian could have been there.

The Jazz Preservation Hall was oppressively humid and run-down, but they assured me the place was not exactly in tip-top shape to begin with. Murky portraits of musicians decorated the ramshackle performance area. The six-piece jazz band played their new instruments with an expressive gusto that made me feel very small, and they were just rehearsing. I couldn’t believe it when they asked me to play _Vertigo_ with them. Their lighthearted arrangement was so hilarious I doubled over with laughter when they played it for me, and I didn’t fare much better when we performed it for a small but lively audience later that night. I wished you could have been there.

I was so preoccupied with what I had experienced that weekend that I can’t remember exactly how I found my way back to Los Angeles, but suddenly there I was in the kitchen, kissing Morleigh and the children.

“Look what I can do!” Levi shouted while doing jumping jacks.

“Very impressive, sweetheart.”

Morleigh filled me in on the things I had missed, including a very minor earthquake that may or may not have happened at all in the middle of the night, but it was enough to inspire a sort of slumber party in our bedroom, complete with popcorn and cartoons. Sian caught Morleigh’s gesticulating hand and held it up to the bright afternoon sunbeams flooding in through the skylight. Her diamond ring bent the light and cast tiny prismatic shapes onto our cactus and succulent collection on a nearby windowsill.

“Daddy, look! It’s a disco ball.”

“How about that?”

“We’re going to Joy’s birthday party!” she said, jumping up and down. Joy is a girl in Sian’s small circle of friends from the hospital. Birthdays are very important.

“Where is it?”

“Beverly Hills.” Morleigh shot me a million dollar smile as she started getting organized to leave. “Take your bags to the car, kids,” she said. “We’re staying with my parents. Back in a couple of days.” A hug. “Oh, I’m sorry…? I’m pretty sure I told you about this, didn’t I…? Don’t worry, you don’t have to go. I knew you would be exhausted.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah! Stay here and relax. We’ll see you on Wednesday.” Morleigh and I have created a look we exchange that simply reads as _How is Sian?_. “She’s had a good couple of days,” Morleigh said, sticking a hand into her tote bag. “Damn it. Sweetie, could you go up to the nursery? I’m pretty sure her rabbit is in there. You know how she gets if she doesn’t have it.”

“Sure.”

The “nursery” was more of a glorified storage room for odds and ends furniture and toys, and I wondered how long it would take me to locate a stuffed animal in there.

Did I smell paint? The door was closed, which was odd. A note was taped to it. Morleigh’s handwriting. Feenix decoration.

_Sian has her rabbit. I love you. We’ll see you Wednesday._

_Enjoy what is in here. The white room is anywhere you want it to be...anywhere you are together._

I opened the door. All the furniture and toys had been replaced with white. White walls, white floor, white ceiling, white bed: it was a miniature version of our room in Eze. And obscured by the white curtains and waving at the departing car...you.

Rosy skin adorned with white paint freckles. Red t-shirt. Black jeans. Short hair.

“Hi Edge,” you said, turning from the open window with a grin.

“Baby.” I managed to take four steps toward you before I dropped to my knees.

“Surprise,” you said quietly as you walked over to me. Stroking my cheekbone and parting my lips with your thumb, you continued, “Or rather...something good you had anticipated and had probably forgotten about that is now actually happening.”

“Bono.” I kissed the fly of your jeans as they struggled to contain you.

“I’ve been anticipating this, in any event.”

I stood and studied your happy face. Touching my chin, you drew me closer and kissed me. And your tongue in my mouth was everything I needed. My body relaxed as you held me in your arms, and when I finally opened my eyes, you were staring at me with a certain amount of triumph.

I sighed. “Christ, you’re so beautiful I can barely even look at you.”

“Glad you approve, Edge.”

“When did you decide to do it?”

You ran your fingers through your hair. “You mean this? I can’t remember if it was New York or London. Maybe it was Paris…”

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

“Possibly Munich.”

“I’m sure it was Munich.”

"No. I bumped into Helene, and she just said, ‘Is time.’ She sends you her best, by the way.” I couldn’t resist any longer. Dizzy, I kissed your left temple and slowly worked my way around your ear and down. Down to the line.

You chuckled and gave a little shrug. “And she was right. Ali and I will be visiting Lesotho in May, and I just didn’t want to fuck with it anymore.”

I bit into your neck. “I will happily fuck with it.”

“Do you want to hear the story behind this room?”

Rough stubble on my tongue. A bolt of electricity shot through me. “Sure.”

“It was Morleigh’s idea. She felt sorry for me because you had been here last year instead of with me. And we didn’t have any time together in Eze, either. I told her to think nothing of it, because of course, of course, it’s...oh Edge, that feels incredible. Anyway, she wanted to do something nice for us, so while you were in New Orleans we had a painting party.”

“Baby.”

“I know, I like it too. Except I think I missed a spot over there--that peach color was surprisingly hard to cover. Hmm.”

“Don’t worry about it, B.”

“You’re barely even paying attention.”

“I sort of am.”

You preened. “Well, we had fun, your wife and I. And she told me that when you and I were getting to know her years and years ago, she saw a white aura around us. Which is supposedly rare and borderline angelic. She says she still sees it. And, whatever, maybe that is a whole bunch of California hippie girl bullshit, but if anyone in the world is an angel, Edge, it’s you.”

“My love.”

“I’ll give you a couple more minutes of playtime back there, but then I’m gonna ask you to focus on something else for a while, okay, Edge?”

I turned to face you, and you pressed my back against a virgin wall. "Your inseam is 32, is it not?" you asked.

"Why do you..." You turned my head to look at the white table by the window. It was crowned with a few tulips in a vase, and beside them sat a pearl. The pearl. "Oh."

“Can we?”

“I don’t know, B. I’m afraid I’m not prepared. Mentally, yes, but I’m not sure about...”

You took me in a firm embrace, and with one hand cradling the back of my head, you looked into my eyes and said, “That’s fine, baby. You will be tomorrow.”

“Absolutely.”

“My body’s on fire for you.”

“So is mine.”

You pushed down on my shoulders, and I knelt before you once again. “Then get to work, my darling.”

I was worshipping your belt when your left hip began to vibrate. I reached into your pocket and fished out your phone, and you glanced at its screen. "Fuck. I've got to take this, Reg."

The number was unfamiliar and in an unusual configuration. "Okay, well, I'm gonna take a shower and, uh, get ready for you."

You kissed me roughly and hit a button. "Hello, Mr. President."

I stood in the shower, bewildered in the best kind of way. I still had New Orleans dirt under my fingernails. I thought about you, pacing around upstairs, changing the world, and waiting for me. As the glass shower enclosure steamed up, I noticed some letters taking shape in the condensation. "A + B + E + M." Hello, dear Morleigh.

 _This is how it's gonna be,_ I said to myself. _This is how it is._

You were still on the phone a bit later, so I got dressed, wandered from room to room, and poured a glass of whiskey. I took it to the backyard, sat under our eucalyptus tree, and looked at Morleigh's lush, colorful plants, Levi's tricycle, and Sian's chalk drawings on the sidewalk. I raised my glass to all of it.

" _You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one._ " Singing and leaning out the window, you waved me back up. "Bring me one of those!"

I returned to the new white room with our drinks. Having already abandoned _Imagine_ , you hummed another tune as you motioned for me to sit on the bed. “How was your call?” I asked.

You shook your head as if to say _Not now,_ took my socks off, and sang, " _Should I bring him down, make him scream and shout, should I speak of love, let my feelings out?_ " You kissed my feet. Smiling, I stroked your soft, cinnamon hair, and we were back.

"B. My god."

You looked up at me in that way of yours: nose down, eyes up, crooked grin, thoroughly irresistible. "Do you really love it? Because I dunno--"

"You are monstrously attractive to me."

"Anything to make you happy, Edge.” You stood and, bending to kiss me, you gently pushed me back onto the bed. “Speaking of...just lie back and let me take over.” As if you weren’t already in complete control of me.

And it was 1998 all over again, except that year’s uncertain, cocky rage had been replaced with the self-assurance of an older man at the top of his game. You undressed me as I gaped at the ceiling of a room where I used to rock my son to sleep. “Fuck me in our bed,” I whispered, enjoying the feeling of those words in my mouth once again.

“Yes?”

“We can. Please, fuck me.”

Tearing off your clothes, you climbed onto the bed beside me and purred against my throat, “Oh, I will, Edge. But that’s only the beginning of what I want.” After kissing a trail down my chest and stomach, your mouth idolized my rigid cock. I held your head in my hands and explored the shorter hair around your ears and neck, so smooth and slick and, tantalizingly, mostly just _gone_ when I stroked down and bristly and resistant when I pulled my fingers up.

You lovingly took me to the brink a couple of times and primed me until, lightheaded and reeling, I begged for mercy. “Please, baby, you’re too good. I can’t take much more of this.”

“Go ahead and come, love. I’m gonna fuck you until you’re hard again.”

I did not require further enticement. My bossy little dom. I could tell you were smiling as you sucked me off, but that was my last coherent thought before I succumbed to the delirium you generated so effortlessly, just by executing a few simple mechanical processes, just by cutting off a few inches of hair, just by being you. And you were just getting started.

“I was thinking, Edge,” you whispered as you entered me and my body seized up for ten breathless seconds. “I say you remind me of an angel all the time, so many times it almost feels lazy.” You gasped and looked down at me with dilated eyes. “But I can’t think of a better word for it. Angel.” Deeper. “How did you even get here?” Deeper. “How is it you belong to me?” There. “Why do you let me do this to you, Edge?”

“Because I am hopelessly in love with you,” I sighed, pulling you down and biting your neck, your dear neck, your troublesome but ultimately fine neck, your thick, long, slick, phallic neck, simply too much neck for any one man to possess and too obscene to view in mixed company, but there you were, day in, day out, torturing me with it, and now it had...the line. The kind of line that makes you fear for your soul, a line that ruins lives, a line that makes kingdoms fall.

You shifted your weight to one arm. Your other hand moved to push nonexistent hair from your forehead. Force of habit. “Still with me?”

“Just thinking about...lines.”

“Of course you were,” you said fondly.

You were slow and tender as you took complete possession of my body and, impressively, you followed through on your promise to make me hard again, calling me angel as often as you called me Edge. Flushed, beautiful skin, pale in places and less pale in places the South American sun had burned. Little white and rusty freckles on your arms. Dark hair patterns that remind me of winter trees silhouetted by the setting sun. Lines and creases created by that bafflingly seductive mouth. Eyes so intelligent and romantic. An unfair amount of male beauty. My beautiful little thug. My muse. My partner. My lover. My friend. My brother. And when you came, and when I came: my God.

You joined me beneath the sheet and put your arms around me. “Beyond love,” you sighed, your every breath a tiny miracle. I was almost asleep when your chest rumbled with a soft chuckle. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were--”

“I’m awake,” I said, kissing your collarbone. “What’s funny?”

“It’s nothing, really. I was at home last week and playing that old Gibson Hummingbird. John came over and started dancing and spinning around--so cute and clumsy I wanted to eat him alive. Then Eli joined us and sat beside me, watching me practice. Except he wasn’t just watching me. It was like he was trying to learn how to do it, so I did what I could to show off a bit, you know? And he looks at me with that little thug face of his--”

“He looks exactly like you, you know.”

“He does! And he looks at me and he says, ‘Do you think Edge will teach me how to play guitar?’”

“Oh, B.”

“I mean.”

“Of course I will.”

“Little fucker.”

I hugged you and said, “You’re such a good father.”

“So are you, love.”

Your stomach growled spectacularly as I moved to spoon you, and you grinned. “Have I ever told you about the little machines?”

“Possibly.”

“I remember being very young, and my stomach was making sounds, and I asked Mum why, and she said, ‘You have little machines inside you, and when you eat, your food goes down to them, and they keep you going.’ And at the time the only machine I really knew about was her sewing machine, so I imagined a sewing machine was inside me and making those noises.”

“Can I interest you and your little sewing machine in a perfectly-cooked poached egg? Some strawberries?”

“Just try and stop us from being interested in that.”

And yet we couldn’t quite bring ourselves to move in the fading afternoon light. Is anything more comforting than the feeling of skin on skin? The hair on your legs felt delicate and silky. You moved to adjust your pillow, and I ran my fingers across your shoulders and down your smooth, warm back. I thought about the first time I felt the weight of your body on mine. The heft of your torso felt thick and substantial and completely unlike a woman’s. _Why is the shape of this man so pleasing?_ I wondered idly. _He just is._

__“Edge?”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__You squeezed my hand and whispered, “Do you still believe in God? After Sian...I don’t know if I could.”_ _

__I kissed your neck. “It hasn’t been easy. Things have changed somewhat. But I believe in whatever is good in the world. I believe in whatever it is in Sian that is getting her through This and is giving her strength.”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“I believe in the good people around us.”_ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__“And I believe in love. I believe in your love. Our love.”_ _

__“I do, too.”_ _

__I am forever stunned that you and I came into existence at roughly the same time and place. I thought about the centuries of nothingness that had passed before you and I were born and the centuries of nothingness that will resume when we die. And I thought about these children of ours with hands and eyes and hearts and bones that are just like yours and mine, and their children who will become blurred versions of us, and their children and their children and their children, with each generation diluting us until you and I are gone forever._ _

__Our breathing had synchronized, and it felt like we had become a single entity. I whispered, “I hope Sian finds someone like you to love when she’s older.”_ _

__You pressed my hand against your chest. “She will, Edge. She will.”_ _


	18. Epilogue: Cyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. This is it. Major time jump. 
> 
> Since he won't give us details, much of the first part here is pure speculation. I consulted with PJ, and we both had the same idea about what happened to him. Both of us have relatives who have undergone this procedure and have seen it change their lives for the better. But I didn’t spell out exactly what it was.
> 
> Also in the first part: an actual Bono quote about sunrises that I fell in love with and simply could not resist including. It's from an Elevation-era GQ article I stumbled upon last week. When I read it I was like, "What a Bono thing to say."
> 
> I included a few Easter egg callbacks for people who have been paying attention. <3
> 
> Thank you as always to anyone who has managed to reach the end of my massive stories, especially Ms PJ, who has stayed with me when others have fallen off, and whose comments mean the world to me. 
> 
> As for me, I'm in mourning/shock now that I've finished this, some 14 months after I began it. I have an idea for my next one, but I might take some time off and let it gestate for a while. But I'm excited about this thing. It'll be a challenge. Until then, thank you for your time and patience, thank you to my husband who tolerates my weirdo hobby, and thanks to Bono and Edge for being the perfect muses and a source of endless inspiration.

I found it. 

We thought it was gone forever. I had lost track of this first part maybe five computers ago, and god knows you can never be bothered to back anything up. I vaguely remember saving it to a CD at some point, but I have been known to misplace those from time to time, haven’t I? Last week Levi and I were flipping through some of my old CD wallets, looking for something by the Rebirth Brass Band. "What's WR?" he asked, holding up a disc labeled with those letters in my handwriting, and my jaw dropped. 

"It's a long story," I said (truthfully) before relieving him of it. 

And here it is for your amusement while you continue to do absolutely nothing else for the next few days, okay? 

You gave us quite a scare, love.

I was making tea when Ali called me in a panic. All I heard was “routine procedure.” I barely remember how I made it to the hospital. In the parking lot, I noticed about a dozen sparrows bemused by a scattering of red licorice pieces someone had dropped on the pavement. I made my way to the hastily-improvised, “we only do this for people like Bono” private waiting room, sat down, and held my head in my hands. A selection of semi-recent magazines and newspapers were arranged on a low table, and one had a picture of you in a small circle near the top--a sarcastic blurb regarding your Woman of the Year award. I picked it up and touched your face. 

Ali tapped me on the shoulder and kissed my cheek. Slipping in beside me, she said, "We've got to stop meeting this way." Her eyes were brimming with tears, and I put my arm around her.

"Routine procedure?"

"Home tomorrow if it goes well."

I took a breath and looked at the blurred ceiling tiles. "Routine procedure," I said again.

"Home tomorrow if it goes well."

We sat together and she updated me quietly, and together we were the eye of a small hurricane of people who love you.

Her voice cracked when she said, "But what if I--"

"You did everything right, Ali."

"I don't wanna think about what would have happened if he’d been alone."

"But you were there. Thank god for you."

"He couldn't breathe. His face..." She started to cry, and as one Eli and John straightened in their chairs and watched me with your wife, their lioness. They came over and sat at her feet, and she stroked their hair.

"You're not alone. I'm so glad he has you," I said.

“Same to you, Edge.” She propped her glasses on her head and looked down at her boys.

"We love you, Mom."

She and I were by your side when you woke up a couple of hours later. How many more ways can I describe them? Your eyes are incomparable. Process blue. Cyan blue. I named two of my daughters after the color of your eyes, for heaven's sake. And for a while I was worried I wouldn't get to stand inside your blue sunlight again. 

Groggy, you mumbled, "I wanna go home. I need to go home." She squeezed my hand, and I nodded at her knowingly. "What?" you asked.

"Baby."

"Sweetheart."

She and I exhaled for the first time that afternoon. We beamed at you, our defiant little tree, repeatedly struck by lightning but still standing in the middle of an empty field. 

I kissed your forehead and gave the two of you some privacy, and then a short parade of family and close friends stopped by to wish you well. Adam and Larry kept me company. One of Ann’s friends had undergone a similar procedure, and Larry reported that the turnaround time is surprisingly quick. But the gravity of the situation was undeniable. We were deeply disturbed by This. 

I have another This.

Once everyone had said goodbye and your doctor convinced you to close your eyes, Ali and I stayed with you. She curled up on a cot facing you, and I sat in a chair holding your hand, occasionally dozing and awakening to find my forehead resting near your hip. A battalion of nurses and doctors stopped by to check on you throughout the night, and they drifted in and out of my waking dreams. Did you really say, _They’re the king and queen of this fucked up thing_?

Eve must have tiptoed in while I was asleep. Eventually I noticed her, sitting on Ali’s cot and staring at you. Her eyes, which are clones of yours, of course, were bloodshot, shining, and ringed with black tears. I raised my head, and she wiped her face with the back of her hand and managed a smile. “In love with my dad much?” she whispered.

“So much.”

My girls were traveling with Aislinn’s family, and Morleigh, Sian, and Levi were on their way to California for Hanukkah when all of this started to happen. I texted them throughout. It was a fluke that I wasn't with them. As this year’s official album-delay spokesman, I had to stay in Dublin for an interview, and that was when I received the call. I cancelled my plans to join them in Los Angeles, and I found myself alone during the holidays for the first time in something like twenty-five years.

Ali made certain to remedy this as soon as you were released from the hospital. We set you up in the downstairs guest bedroom, the same one you slept in when you were recovering from your accident. And your back surgery. And probably any number of hangovers. I watched over you there for a couple of nights. That bed can accommodate four or five adults, but we managed to crowd it with enough technology, written material, and musical instruments to create a couple of respectable media centers.

I didn’t want you to wake up alone in the darkness with no one to comfort you. Thankfully, most of the time you slept when you were supposed to, swathed in crisp periwinkle sheets. I had more trouble sleeping than you did, although you woke me during the wee hours of the second night.

“Edge?” you whispered.

“I’m right here,” I opened my eyes and moved closer. “What can I get you?”

“This changes everything.”

I looked at your dark profile, outlined with gray moonlight. “You’re going to be fine, love.”

“But it changes everything. I need to rewrite so much...”

“It’ll still be there in the morning, B.”

“Once my mind gets started, there’s no stopping it. How many times have you--”

“I know.” I took your hand. Your fingers were as soft and sturdy as the first day I touched them. “Okay. We’re up. Talk to me.”

You sighed. “God, I feel so fucking old.”

“Truly old people have enough sense to go back to sleep at four in the morning.”

“David Bowie. Prince. I mean, it’s not out of the question.”

“You’ve survived worse. C’mere.” I put my arm around you, and you rested your head on my chest. 

“I suppose. But...what if I died the other day?”

“Perish the thought.”

“But what if I did? Those two were universally mourned. I would not be. I remember what it was like to be in their league. It’s not the same anymore. And that’s...whatever.”

“Those people are wrong about you.”

“I should care about the people under this roof more than anyone else," you said, gesturing above your head. "They are ones I should write for.”

“Then do it. Use what’s happened to create something for them.”

“And something for you. For us.”

“Yes.” Without thinking about it, I put my hand under your featherweight t-shirt. I slid it up to your chest before I caught myself. “Can I touch it? I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You know full well they didn’t even do anything--if you so much as think about tickling me you are going to be one sorry man, Edge.” Laughing, I backed off and buried my nose in your hair. I felt you smile against my heart. “Guess what they told me I said when they put me under this time? ‘I think it’s starting to work.’ Again! I need to develop some new material.”

“I dunno, I’m a big fan of your early stuff.”

“Fuck you, Edge. Fuck you so much.”

“You wish.”

Your hand began to roam. “Soon. They say I’ll be able to return to--” 

“One thing at a time, B.”

“Soon.”

“If they say it’s okay.”

I held you for a little while. Then, yawning, you sat up and reached for your your iPad. Its cool light illuminated your face in all its grinning, stubbly glory as you checked your mail.

“So when are you gonna tell the world about this...episode?”

“I’m not.” You glanced at me. “Nobody is. I might hint that something happened somewhere down the line, but I don’t want--nobody needs to know the details. And I certainly have no interest in talking about them.”

“I think that’s wise.”

“I’m a wise and fucking old man, Edge.”

I kissed your cheek, went back to sleep, and indulged in the relentlessly stupid dreams unique to early morning. The scent of coffee awakened me a few hours later, and by that time you were snoring softly.

Ali stood at the kitchen windows that overlook the bay. She heard me approach and put her finger to her lips. She pointed at a large, bald eagle-like bird perched on a nearby tree branch, and then she slid a bird book over to me. “Red kite, don’t you think?”

I looked at the illustration. Yellow beak. Copper body, black and white wings, all decorated with a variety of speckles. “I think you’re right,” I whispered.

“It says they’re endangered. But making a comeback.”

“Good for them.”

It remained motionless for a few minutes. Then the kite faced the pale blue horizon and, flexing its legs and flapping its wings, it jumped into the sky and flew away.

“How is he?’

“Up at around 4:00 with a bit of an existential crisis, but he’s asleep now.”

“Poor darling.”

“It’s amazing how quickly he’s bounced back, though.”

“Compared with everything else he’s dealt with, this is…” she trailed off and adjusted the belt of her robe.

“Yeah.”

“I couldn’t sleep at all last night, of course.”

“Obviously.”

She stretched her arms. “When is Christmas?”

“Sunday.”

“Today is…”

“Thursday.”

“Fuck.” 

I smiled. “Let me help you.”

Ali sighed and took a couple of small plates from a cabinet. “Okay. But first…” She opened a plastic container labeled in Mariana’s flowing script and placed a few extravagantly-decorated gingerbread men on each plate. “Her latest obsession is baking, apparently.” We sat at the kitchen table.

“Ahh, the little iris plates,” I said, biting off a foot. “These are not bad.”

“Not bad at all.” She refilled her coffee cup and poured one for me. “Wanna wrap some presents later? You’re pretty good at that, right?”

I nodded. “I’m known far and wide for my pragmatic wrapping skills.”

I could tell she was composing a list of things to do in her head. I scanned the kitchen: gleaming as always, but with ample evidence that four young people were home. I heard the faraway whine of a shower. 

“Jordan’s up,” Ali said.

Then, from your room, a cackle. This was followed a few seconds later by a text message on my phone with a gif of a cat hiding in a cabinet and ambush-slapping his oblivious brother. “Us!” you wrote. I chuckled and showed it to Ali.

She rolled her eyes. “Is he hassling you for it yet?”

I made eye contact with my last gingerbread man. “A little. You?” 

She nodded. 

“Do you wanna go first?” I asked.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she said, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t totally nervous about the idea.”

“Same here.”

“I fear that what he experiences is beyond what most people enjoy.”

“Maybe one of us should just...supervise him.”

She smiled in the direction of your room. “You know? I’m sure he’d be all about that.”

“Well, I guess we still have a few days to figure this out.”

“Wanna flip a coin for it? Heads or tails, Edge.”

I laughed. 

“What’s so funny?” you asked, entering the kitchen and kissing Ali’s cheek. I got up and offered you my arm, which you scoffed at, and we walked to the window together. An unremarkable sunrise was underway, and you hummed with pleasure. “Sunrises are God's hit singles, aren't they?” you said, resting your head on my shoulder. I put my arm around you and said a silent prayer for more wan December mornings. I said a silent prayer for time.

I thought of my younger self eleven years ago, distraught over Sian, and I wished that I, Edge of the future, could have visited him and let him know the future is indeed better. I want her to be on the cover of the new record, B. My beautiful Sian and your beautiful Eli, holding hands the way you and I are in Cecile’s painting: don’t you think so?

“Baby?” I whispered.

“Edge?”

“I think maybe you are a phoenix.”

 

\-----

 

Look at these photos, Edge. Look at the first three, anyway. Anton sent them to me in my email overnight, and I’m going to see if he can frame them for us. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with them.

I barely remember him taking those pictures last month. He had stopped by the house to wish me well, and Ali says she looked in on us to see if we were awake. We were not, but she urged Anton to photograph me with my head tucked under your chin and our arms encircling each other. A bedside lamp lit us softly. Our eyes are open in the second photo, and I am gazing up at you, and you have noticed Anton. I’ve returned to my post at your chest in the third photo, and you are kissing the top of my head. Every wrinkle, every hair, and every freckle is visible thanks to that uncompromisingly honest aesthetic of his, but the intimacy on display is truly breathtaking. Sacred, even.

Speaking of freckles, this morning I discovered a new one on my forehead. So there is a tiny part of me you haven’t kissed yet, Edge, and this is something I hope you’ll correct later. 

Christ, what do you see in this scraggly raisin of a face? 

You know what? Strike that. This scraggly raisin is grateful to be alive and breathing this delicious French oxygen, indebted to God and science yet again. 

Edge: I couldn’t breathe. It felt like the mistral stole it away from me, and I was terrified. And then, for a while, after it all closed in on me, I saw things. The glass wasn’t dark anymore, and I saw golden things, golden lights. And then...golden you and golden Ali, guiding me back.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

My love. 

I took the fourth photo in an attempt to make your wish come true. Your beautiful genius child came to visit me once everyone had returned from Los Angeles, and she sat at the foot of my bed radiating the kind of serene intensity that’s on every branch of her father’s side of the family tree.

“How was California, princess?”

She looked at her hands. “It was okay. But we were all worried about you. And Mom’s family is just so loud.”

“You’re not the only one who thinks so.”

“I managed to escape a few times and just chill in the little white room. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No. I love that you did that.”

She grabbed my left foot through the duvet and gave it a squeeze. “How are you doing?”

“You know, Sian, you’re probably the only person in the family who understands what this is like.”

She nodded and gave a shy smile. “Too much attention.”

“It’s the kind of attention that isn’t fun, anyway.”

“Right. We love you so much.” She brightened. “I’m so happy you’re gonna be okay.”

“Me too.”

Eli passed by the doorway and waved at Sian.

“Eli,” I called. “Come in here for a second.”

“Do you need something?”

I picked up my phone. “Yeah. Edge had an idea and I just wanted to see...I need you to stand together and hold hands.”

“Because…” They looked at each other and shrugged. Sian stood up.

“Because I want to take a picture of it. For a project.”

My thug and your figurine stood beside the bed and held hands as instructed. Their mothers’ dark eyes stared back at me--our light eyes did not win the genetic war as far as these two were concerned. I took a photo, squinted, and nodded at my phone. “Perfect.”

Eli and Sian exchanged a look unique to long-suffering teenagers. And then they grinned and walked over to see the photo. 

“Fun picture, Dad,” said the boy who has never met a cafeteria lady he couldn’t charm.

“Get back here,” I said. Eli gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and Sian did the same. I took their hands and said, “Enjoy your beauty.”

Eli exhaled. “Okay.”

“Uh, thanks,” Sian said, removing an elastic band from her wrist and pulling her long, dark hair into a low ponytail. Maybe I’ve been thinking about the upcoming tour too much, but as she walked away, I saw an echo of you, Edge. 

Ahh, there you are. Your pillow is no longer covering your face.

It’s been a while since we’ve been here in the winter. With the exception of a couple of Peach Grandchildren I saw rolling around on the beach this morning, the hills, the buildings, the sea, and even that yellow church seem bleached. It’s cold, and our white surroundings up here are making everything seem that much colder. Maybe we should outfit one of the other rooms entirely in red for our occasional winter visits. Or not. This will always be my favorite room in the world. I’m glad you brought us home.

I’ve always wanted to live in a house with a name, but for as long as we’ve lived here, I don’t think I’ve called it Villa Èze Les Roses more than once or twice. Or Bono and Edge’s Sex Palace, for that matter. It’s more than a mere vacation house. I suppose I simply think of it as Ours. Our Home. Our Sanctuary.

You can tell what’s going on inside most houses just by looking at them, especially those treeless, cookie-cutter structures that pop up like beige mushrooms along the outskirts of cities in that beautiful monster of a country. But the same could be said about my house in Dublin. One look at it and, yeah, obviously some pompous asshole has put that thing together. But our house here, Edge? Our extraordinary, one of a kind house makes people wonder. _We_ make people wonder. _What goes on in there?_

What goes on, indeed...

I’m holding a small, painted green eye--your green lover’s eye--in my hand. What a perfect gift. If I wink and position it in my field of vision over your closed eyelid, you appear to be awake. I’m going to wear it over my heart from now on. Twenty-five years. Thank you, love.

Twenty-five years ago last night, I convinced you to fly to New York and look at some photos of a decidedly unscraggly, non-raisin-like iteration of me, and we officially stopped fighting it. We kissed, and everything changed. Shaving cream and caramel and humidity and two tongues saying _Fuck these idiots for keeping us apart._ It was the most electrifying moment of my life, and I would gladly spend every golden second of eternity reliving it with you.

You’re my singularity. 

I love you more than anyone.


End file.
